


wheat kings and pretty things (let's just see what tomorrow brings)

by PotofCoffee



Category: Holby City, The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off, Baking, Bernie and Serena are still surgeons, Everyone Thinks They're Together, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, background Raf Di Lucca/Adrian Fletcher, background Zosia March/Jac Naylor, everyone else is not, lots and lots of baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 154,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotofCoffee/pseuds/PotofCoffee
Summary: When Bernie applies for The Great British Bake Off she never expects to make it on the show. Somehow she does, and there she meets Serena Campbell. Between signatures, showstoppers, and not insignificant amounts of shiraz, Bernie and Serena become closer than Bernie would've ever anticipated. It's all awfully complicated though, what with the competition, the publicity, the stress of their jobs, and of course the fact that Serena is straight as an arrow and Bernie's quickly growing crush is wildly inappropriate at best.Baking, at the end of the day, is simple. Predictable, even. Love not so much.for a visual guide on the bakes go here





	1. The Applications

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody I'm back! I know the fandom's died off a bit since CRuss left but hopefully there are still people out here to read this thing I've been pouring my soul into for the past three months.  
> Apologies to Paul, Mary, Sue and Mel whose likenesses have been co-opted for this fic. Though I do think Sue would support this tbh.  
> General housekeeping things: this fic is pretty long (60k so far) and getting longer, the good news is I have a hefty chunk of it written already so you can expect regular updates. Posting schedule will be every Monday and Friday. A general knowledge of GBBO will probably help with your enjoyment of the fic but isn't strictly necessary.  
> Please feel free to come chat with me on tumblr (@magnass) or twitter (@queerandnerdy), especially if you're interested in any of the bakes discussed here. I have recipes for most and have even test-baked a couple. Those of you who follow me on either of those or on instagram (@potofcoffee) are probably already well aware of how much I love baking.

“Mum!” Cam crashes into the kitchen in his usual manner—half tripping over his own feet in his haste. He's holding his iPad, brandishing it in front of him as he goes. “Mum you have to do this!” he exclaims, all giddiness and youthful energy, and Bernie rolls her eyes at his antics.

“What's ‘this’?” She asks. “Cam, I can't read anything with how you’re waving that about.” He hands the tablet over and Bernie takes it, curious to see what has engendered such urgency. ‘Applications open for the Great British Bake Off 2017’ the page reads, and Bernie looks up at Cam, shocked.

“What?”

“Bake Off, Mum! You know, big white tent, baking, awful food related puns.” He’s grinning wide in excitement.

“Don’t, Cam, I can’t do this.” She hands him back the tablet with a grimace.

“Why not? You're a great baker.”

“That’s sweet of you, but, well... I mean I'm not bad Cam but this? This is for  _really_ good bakers. People who have been doing it for years. Not, I mean I couldn’t bake a loaf of bread a year and a half ago.”

“Who cares how long you've been doing it for? Your stuff is better than half the things they sell in bakeries. Plus, you always say we should try at things even if we might not succeed.” He looks about half a second from sticking his tongue out at her and Bernie isn’t sure if she should be annoyed he’s using her own words against her or happy that at least he has been listening to her all these years.

“I also always say that there’s no substitute for experience,” she shoots right back, poking him in the shoulder. “So there!”

“Well what’s the harm in trying?

“It’s a huge time commitment, Cam, even just for the audition process, being a surgeon doesn’t exactly make for a flexible schedule.”

“What boss would deny you time off for Bake Off? Pretty sure that would be considered unpatriotic at this point. Plus, it’s not like you have anything else eating up your time.”

“Oi Cheeky! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon Mum, you don’t date, you spend all your time at work, you barely hang out with anyone other than me and Charlotte—which is a little tragic by the way—you don’t even have a pet!”

“You might want to hurry up and get to the point there,” she warns him.

“You should do something. Something just for you. Something that’s not work-related. This could be fun! And it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“I…” Bernie sighs. He probably has a point, “I'll think about it okay?”

“Okay,” he accepts that answer without further prodding, can probably sense that he’s pushed her about as far as he can get away with. “Ooh!” He switches tracks immediately, “that smells good! What's cooking?”

“Treacle tart. For pudding. But you'll only get some if you—”

“If I eat my vegetables, I know,” he says, 5 again with that eye roll, that grin.

“I was going to say if you clear all your rubbish off the dinner table and set the places,” she shoots back. Cam hesitates, looking at the mound of textbooks, papers, and assorted junk. “C’mon on with it now,” she prompts him, giving him a light push on the shoulder, and he sighs dramatically before setting to the task at hand.

As Cam walks off, Bernie's left to muse somewhat on how happy she is to have such a good relationship with her son. He's been staying with her for a couple of days, getting some insight for Part B of the MRCS examination he’ll be taking soon, and has borne even the punishingly tough studying schedule she's been pushing upon him with grace. 5 years ago, when she split from Marcus, Bernie never thought she'd be this close to him. Just 19, and only recently moved out to attend medical school, the news that his parents were splitting up—not to mention splitting up because of his mother’s discovery of her latent lesbianism—hadn't been easy to take. He had borne it slightly better than Charlotte, who'd been just 16 and still lived at home, but it wasn't pretty by any means. Months had followed, first filled with silence as Bernie tried to muster up the courage to make contact, and later of Bernie doing her best to mend the bridges between them. It didn’t go well at first, communication is not Bernie’s strong suit after all, but they muddled through, eventually dealing not only with Bernie’s new-found identity crisis but also with her lack of presence when they were younger.

They're better now. As are she and Charlotte. Much better. Bernie has almost gotten to the point where she feels she no longer needs to constantly apologise for the past and she's very much enjoying the chance to get to know the adults her children are swiftly growing into. Fine adults, at that, if she does say so herself. It's gratifying to know she hasn't mucked everything up.

The sound of the oven timer going off breaks her out of her thoughts, and then she's too consumed by the juggling act of pulling tarts out of the oven while she puts the finishing touches on supper to dwell more on thoughts of the past. After supper Cam retires to the guest room, begging off of socializing with his mother any longer with the excuse of studying needing to be done. That leaves Bernie to the sofa, the book she's part way through, and the unfinished bottle of white wine in her fridge. The book is Peter Reinhart’s  _The Bread Baker’s Apprentice_ and Bernie is reading through carefully, pencil in hand as she makes notations of recipe ideas on the margins or circles key bits of the methods that are new to her. Her mind, however, keeps drifting back to her earlier conversation with Cam. The Great British Bake Off, eh? Bernie's seen every season, of course, who in Britain hasn't? She thoroughly enjoys watching the bakers in the tent, prefers the pleasant pacing and camaraderie to other more antagonistic cooking competitions. But her? Apply for the show? She's barely more than a novice at all his stuff. Sure, when the kids were young she'd occasionally put together a batch of cookies or a tray bake when she was on leave, but it was with pre-packaged mixes as often as not and she never really thought much of it all. She had been just as likely to not waste the effort and simply upend a box of pastries from Waitrose into a basket and call it done. She was always jealous of the other mothers, the ones who seemed to always have a fresh batch of bread coming out of the oven, who darned their children’s socks, who never left laundry hanging around longer than was strictly necessary, who were always ready with the right thing to say and do. The women who made motherhood, everything that Bernie struggled with so much, look effortless. But beyond that fruitless yearning to be a perfect mother—and despite a fair amount of introspection and not inconsiderable amounts of therapy she has never been able to quite figure out if that desire was Marcus’, society’s, or her own—baking never really entered her consciousness.

Then the accident happened. Bernie is very aware of how close she came to dying. Too aware some might say, hence the therapy. Trapped under a rolled Humvee for hours before she was rescued, and with serious injuries to both her spine and heart, her experience told her that she was unlikely to make it out alive. But they found her, dragged her out, patched her up, and then strapped her to a backboard and flew her to London to get the best medical care in the country.

The damage was extensive, of that she is sure, Bernie doesn’t know if she would've been successful with a patient in the same situation and Bernie is one of the best. With the injury to her heart came a cocktail of meds and loads of bed rest, and with the spinal trauma came what was thankfully very temporary paralysis and lingering weakness. She was stuck in bed for weeks, in hospital going stir crazy, and even once she could move she couldn't go very far. Her children came to see her occasionally, but they were busy people with their own lives and Bernie refused to be a burden on them. With no partner or spouse to keep her company she was left to subsist on what hospital drama du jour she could glean from the nurses and whatever else she could find to entertain herself.

Telly had never really interested Bernie, and one can only watch so many awful daytime shows before one goes mad, so she turned to books. Ebooks meant she wasn’t stuck with the meagre options the hospital had on offer and with all the variety of the internet at her fingertips she found, oddly enough, that it was cookbooks she liked reading the most. They required very little mental effort on her part: she didn't have to remember anyone's names or try to figure out why they were doing this or feeling that. She could pick one up, turn to any page, and let her eyes scan over ingredient lists, be lulled by the gentle rhythm of instructions to julienne this and fold in that. She found a couple with thick sections in the front that contained a litany of information about what recipes really meant when they asked for something. Bernie had previously thought there was only one way to chop up an ingredient, one way to stir the contents of a pot, she soon learned she could not have been more wrong.

When they released her from hospital she went back to her tiny little flat in London—the one she had bought post-divorce, that had acted more as a storage closet than anything else—and found herself more ambulatory and able but still not back to her usual self. She was on medical leave from the RAMC, was told she should expect to be so for months, and so she cast about for some sort of hobby to entertain her idle mind. Knitting, crocheting, and similar crafty activities were ruled out immediately—Bernie had always been horribly lacking in the artistic department—plants were not something she either enjoyed or excelled at, and she figured getting an animal was a supremely stupid idea. So, figuring she might as well put all of the knowledge she had absorbed to good use, she decided to start baking. It was calming, she found, the idea that you could diligently follow the instructions and be assured of a good result, with little personal skill or artistry involved. She learned that some things were less forgiving (cakes) and others more so (breads). She baked more and more the stronger she got and the more she tried the more adventurous she became.

She started working out a little, too, getting back into shape for active duty, on top of the physical therapy she had started for the temporary paralysis, and was happily surprised to find that kneading and mixing had kept up more arm strength than expected. All of this: the hobby, the physical therapy, and the exercising, she did with the expectation that her time in London was temporary, that she would be headed back to Afghanistan as soon as she was able. That was not what ended up happening.

In the end, she stayed home for the simplest reason in the world: her kids wanted her to. It was Cam who brought it up—months later she learned he had lost a coin toss—who stood in the kitchen and watched her knead bread, dug his hands deep in his pockets and stared intently at the ground, opened his mouth a couple of times before he was able to verbalise what he was thinking; more Bernie's child than either of them would easily admit.

“You don't want me to go back.” She didn't stop kneading as she spoke, kept her eyes on the dough instead of her son.

“That's—I want you to be happy, mum. Lottie and I both do. I know that the RAMC makes you happy and I know it's selfish to want you to stay here, but…” he sighed, took a deep breath, tried again. “I can't help but think of what a close call this was. I don't think you'd get as lucky a second time.”

“And if I do go back?” She still didn’t look at him, wondered if this was an ultimatum like the ones Marcus had tried to give her so many times.

“Then I'll write you letters and make sure I'm free for your satellite calls and pick you up from the airport when you come home on leave. And Lottie will too. Like I said Mum, we want you to be happy.”

“Okay,” she said. She was so grateful that he wasn't going to guilt her into staying: would not follow his father’s example of using contact as a bargaining chip to get his way. “I'll think about it.”

They left it at that, moved onto other items of conversation as Bernie's bread proofed and baked. But when Bernie said goodbye to her son that night, she hugged him tight, whispered in his ear how much she loved him, how sorry she was that she wasn't better at saying it. And after he was gone, fresh loaf of bread in his hands, Bernie thought about his words. She considered his point for a long time, considered what it would mean to leave the army, what it would mean to stay. She no longer needed the RAMC like she had needed it when she was younger, when she was still married. Then it had been her lifeline, the one thing that allowed her to keep her marriage alive, as awful as that might sound. And at that point there was no Alex anymore, no dangerous, heady love affair to make her feel like she was only alive in the desert. Her work was tough and dangerous and she wasn't as young as she used to be. So, after much deliberation, Bernie made a decision she never expected to make, she decided to leave the army.

Adapting to civilian life wasn't easy. She did sometimes think that it was much easier than it would have been with Marcus. There was no one to tell her that she was doing everything wrong, nobody's expectations to live up to. She felt a little guilty at that, still does whenever she feels such unfettered glee at being divorced. People are supposed to regret leaving their spouse, she thinks. Unless it's really bad, of course, and she and Marcus were never really bad. People are supposed to mourn the loss of their relationship, yearn for the partnership they once had. Bernie just feels free. She felt a little bit free when she resigned her commission, too. A little groundless to be fair, but hopeful, limitless. She saw her children more and baked more and started to think about finding a job. She looked around London, then cast her gaze a little wider, started to really consider what she wanted. In the end she chose to locum for the NHS: felt that working for a few weeks or months all over the country suited her very well.

She’s been doing that ever since, the locum work, and she really likes it. She gets to travel, gets to see how different places practice medicine all over the country. She thinks she might work somewhere and decide to apply there for a full-time position, but until then it affords her freedom, keeps her far from stagnation, and give her restlessness an outlet.

She's in London right now, working at King’s College Hospital and occasionally threatening to end up at New Green so Cam can get a taste of working with his mum. She’ll be here for a good few months still, then spend the better part of her summer in Manchester covering for an ED doc’s leave before moving on elsewhere—still undecided. And through all these positions, she's still been baking. What began as a hobby to keep herself occupied has become what some might call an obsession. She reads cookbooks and recipe sites constantly, and wherever she stays she makes sure there's at least a semi decent kitchen to work in. She tests out new recipes and perfects old ones and her kids are now used to leaving with a bag full of baked goods every time they visit her. She becomes well known at the hospitals she works at too for bringing in excess cakes and biscuits. She thinks her colleagues probably find her a bit strange: she is reserved and aloof, arrogant to many she’s sure, wholly focuses on her work, makes no effort to ingratiate herself with her fellow doctors, and yet plies them all with food on a regular basis.

She doesn't care what they think of her. She doesn't dislike the people she works with, most of the time, but she also feels no desire to befriend any of them. It's probably pathetic, her lonely little life with no friends and no partner, but it suits her just fine. Not that she would mind a friend, but she feels so rusty in the realm of human interaction. What do people even talk to each other anymore? All Bernie cares about these days are surgery and food.

Maybe she will apply for Bake Off, she thinks. Maybe she'll make it through to the first round of interviews and she'll make a friend there, at least they would have a love of baking in common. She snorts at that thought. Other surgeons don't even really like her, the general public isn't likely to look on her more kindly.

* * *

Serena spends a lot of time looking at the webpage before she mentions it to anyone else. She keeps it up in a separate window on her work desktop, has it permanently open in her phone’s web browser as well. She feels foolish, considering it, feels ridiculous when she thinks that she could have even half a shot. Sure, everyone says ‘you should do Bake Off’ when they eat her food, but that's just what people say. It doesn't mean anything. It certainly doesn't mean that she's actually good enough to make it.

Still, she considers it. She doesn't talk about it with other people as she’s rather afraid they'll laugh in her face. She can't help thinking of her mother, doubtless she would think it an absurd flight of fancy. It was with Adrienne that Serena first learned to bake. For as long as she can remember, Serena was fascinated with the magic her mother wrought in the kitchen. She can recall peeking over the counter, reaching out for anything she could touch. And Adrienne shared well with her daughter in that space, would let Serena mix and knead and help in whatever other way she was able. In a youth where Serena often felt in an endless Sisyphean effort to earn her mother’s approval, the kitchen was the one place where the strains of their relationship were eased.

Serena loves baking still. She loves the process of it all, finds it comforting and enjoyable. The smells, the tastes, the artistry of it all are dear to her heart. Serena never considered herself artistic, had long ago made peace with the fact that she was strictly governed by the left side of her brain, but it’s somehow different when her canvas is made of buttercream or ganache. In the kitchen she is more delicate and creative than she is anywhere else save for theatre. She’s geeky enough to like the science behind it all, too. She likes that if you heat chocolate to the right temperature it becomes a magically workable shiny substance, likes knowing why you need both sugar and salt in a loaf of bread (the former to feed the yeast, the latter to control it), loves that once you figure out the ratio of flour to water to leavening agents to fat you are no longer held to any particular recipe: anything made with the correct ratios will work. She bakes when she’s happy and when she’s bored and when she’s stressed and when she’s angry. After she left Edward she pictured his face every time she punched down her dough for years. She bakes when she’s sad, too. When her mother died she took a week off work, spent the entire week baking and crying. Between flour and yeast and tears she began the long and difficult process of learning just who she was in the world when she was no longer Adrienne McKinnie’s daughter.

When Serena first learned she was going to have a child she dreamed of teaching her child to cook and bake, to love the craft as much as she did. But Elinor was never interested in any of it, preferred other pursuits, and as her daughter grew Serena found she bore more of her mother’s faults than she had hoped. Someway somehow she was not the loving maternal figure she had told herself she would be in her teen years. Ellie preferred her indulgent father on all accounts and Serena floundered with the challenge of doling out warmth and discipline in equal quantities. Perhaps that was what brought them to their current situation. Perhaps if she had managed warmth outside of the kitchen as well as she did inside of it Elinor wouldn't have turned to partying and rampant narcotics abuse.

It was almost a year ago now, but Serena remembers it like it was yesterday: the call that woke her up at 3 am, driving to the address that Elinor had managed to give her, her hands gripping the steering wheel in terror. She found her only daughter in a rundown house filled with the evidence of a massive party, a complete mess and high out of her mind. It took a fair amount of effort for Serena to bite her lip on everything she wanted to say, to instead wrap her daughter in a tight hug and bundle her off home. She gleaned enough from Elinor’s disjointed speech to learn that Edward and his absurd wife knew about this, or some of it at least, and keeping her jaw clenched on everything she wanted to say then was an incredible effort in self-control. She made sure Elinor was safely in bed and asleep before driving to Edward’s house and banging her fist against the front door until she roused him.

She burst into his house, read him the riot act for keeping this from her, told him he wasn't allowed to see her daughter until she said so, considered killing him right there but thought the better of it—Elinor needed her and, frankly, Edward wasn’t worth prison. After she had said everything she needed to say, she drove home, forwent sleeping in favour of sitting up at her computer and looking up rehab facilities, decided right then and there that she would do everything in her power to turn her daughter’s life around, so help her god.

Now Ellie is back home with her, keeping a somewhat unsteady peace with Jason, and working to pay off the immense debt she had racked up. Serena can't say she's at all pleased with the circumstances that brought Ellie back under her roof, but it has been rather nicer than she would have thought. Perhaps it's borne of the vulnerability of Ellie calling her in such a time of great need, but Serena feels closer to her daughter than she ever has. Elinor is still Elinor however, flighty and dismissive and prone to jumping into actions and words without thinking. She was incredibly unhappy to find out she would be sharing her mother’s home with her cousin when she returned from rehab. Serena is grateful that Jason is not the type to be easily offended by idle comments: Ellie was less than pleasant to him at first. She is getting better though. Serena is proud that she is learning and growing from her situation: as far as she's concerned the only worse thing than having a child in this sort of mess would be if they wilfully ignored any chance to get better. Well, obviously the worst of all would be… But that doesn’t bear thinking about.

That all is yet another consideration: should she be taking on something as massive as Bake Off (should she be chosen of course) with Ellie still recovering and with Jason's intense need for a predictable routine? Logic says no. Still she wants it. She wants the chance at least to try this. It's entirely selfish and she can't think of the last thing she did entirely for herself. She's not sure that's a good enough reason.

It's with a fair amount of trepidation that she brings the subject up at dinner one night. She's already started filling out the form and she knows she needs to deal with it sooner rather than later. She makes sure there's a glass of Shiraz beside her—and a bottle not much further—before she says anything.

“I wanted to get your opinions on something,” she starts. “Both of you. It's, well it's something I've kind of already started doing… But I’ll stop if either of you have any objections.”

“You're dating someone!” Elinor exclaims immediately.

“Are you?” Jason asks, staring across the table at her in consternation.

“No!” She takes a gulp of wine and glares a little at her children. “No, I am most certainly not.”

“Why not? I'm sure you have options,” says Elinor. As though  _someone_ must be kind enough to take pity and agree to date her poor agèd mother. “Ooh! What about that cardio doc? The one with the piercing blue eyes.”

“Oliver Valentine? Heavens no! I'm old enough to be his mother.”

“The neuro guy then.”

“Guy Self? God that's even worse.”

“What about Robbie?” Jason butts in. “Robbie the Bobbie? Nurse Lou says you were going to move in together.”

Serena thinks to herself that Lou needs to keep her mouth shut.

“What?” Elinor spins in her chair to look at Serena. “You never told me about that!”

“I—” she breaks off instead of giving a reply. “This is not the point! I’m not going to date anyone.”

“Why did you bring it up then?” Jason asks.

“I didn’t! Bloody hell. I’m thinking of applying to the Great British Bake Off.  _That’s_ what I wanted to ask you both about.”

They both stare at her for a couple of seconds and Serena deeply considers backpedalling immediately. Obviously, this was just a foolish flight of fancy that she should abandon post-haste.

“Well I think that sounds great,” Elinor says finally.

“Oh. Do—do you?”

“Yeah Mum. You love baking and if you want to do it then go for it.” Elinor’s words are much sweeter than Serena expected. “I mean loads of people apply so you probably won’t get in anyway, but you might as well try.” Ah, yes. That sounds more like her daughter.

“Right. Thanks.”

“She’s right,” Jason adds slowly. “You’re not very likely to get in.”

“Loving the vote of confidence from both of you.”

“If you apply are you going to have to bake all sorts of new things?” Jason asks.

“Yes, I suppose I will,” she replies.

“Well as long as I get to taste them then I suppose that’s okay,” he decrees.

“You can be my official taste tester,” Serena replies with an indulgent smile.

“Hey!” Elinor objects, never one to be left out.

“You can  _both_ be my official taste testers.”

They speak a little further about it, about what the application process will be like, about what kind of schedule she would be keeping if she were to make the show. She promises Jason that she will keep him abreast of any schedule changes with as much warning as possible. Thinks, not for the first time, that his need for a completely rigid schedule is probably good for her and especially good for Ellie.

She sits at the kitchen table and watches the two of them do the after supper clean up together while she has another glass of wine. They work well together, now at least, loading the dishwasher with the comfortable rhythm of a well-practiced routine. Serena’s glad for this spirit of cooperation, seen not just in this but in most things in the house. They fight of course, all three of them do in different ways, but they seem to be getting along better now. She loves them both, loves Jason as though he’s her own, and she desperately wants them both to be happy. Also, it’s a lot more enjoyable living in a house where two of the inhabitants aren’t locked in an endless war.

After the kitchen is clean and Elinor and Jason have left (one upstairs to read, the other to the sitting room to watch his shows) Serena grabs her recipe boxes and books, tops up her glass of wine, and turns the ancient kitchen radio on low. With the strains of BBC Radio 3 crackling gently through the air, just slightly louder than the muffled sound of whatever Jason’s watching coming from the other room, and the warm evening sun streaming in through the windows, Serena opens her oldest cookbook and lets her fingers trace the pages. The binding is falling to pieces on Florence White’s  _Good Things in England_ and the pages are well speckled with various ancient spills and splatters. It’s less of a practical cookbook now, more of a historical document. It was her grandmother’s once, a prized possession for sure, and Serena has read it cover to cover many a time. She flips slowly through the recipes, lets her mind wander with ideas as she does so, sees annotations on different recipes in three different hands (her grandmother’s, her mother’s, and her own), feels all that bit closer to the women of her family who came before her. After that she reaches for her  _Joy of Cooking,_ a giant tome she bought when attending Harvard and that has served her well ever since. She flips through her recipe cards next, all 3 boxes of them organised to a T. As she reads over recipes, from tried and true to never tested she really considers the decision she is about to make.

Serena takes the idea of submitting an application very seriously, even though she knows her chances of making onto the show are slim. To do this would be to open up what has been, until now, a very private part of her life. She doesn’t often talk to people about her baking, beyond the fact that she’ll bring the excess into work, it’s something that has always been very specifically hers. Apart from her mother, Serena never bakes with anyone. She remembers early on in their relationship Edward had wanted to be involved, wanted to be a part of everything in her life including her baking. But she shooed him out of her kitchen, didn’t want to open up that part of her to his perusal. She wonders if that was a sign, maybe, that she shouldn’t have married him. Perhaps had he been a better man (or a better man for her) she would have felt just fine letting him join her in her process. But she never did. And she’s never shared it with anyone else she’s dated since. Not that that list is very long. Neither Jason nor Elinor have showed much interest in joining her in the kitchen, and they are the only ones she’s ever wanted to have there.

To do Bake Off would be to open up a little more, to share this passion she’s had her whole life, not just with those around her but with everyone.

It terrifies and excites her in equal measure.

As her fingers flick through recipe after recipe she ends up on one she hasn’t made in a very long time: a classic lemon drizzle cake. She can remember making it with her mother, thinks it may be one of the first things they ever baked together. And there it is: that heedless desire, itching in her fingertips, to make something. To bring a bunch of ingredients together and create magic. She checks the clock, she’s still got time. She stands, puts away the books and cards she’s not using, then places the recipe in the little holder that has a permanent place on her counter.

She probably doesn’t even need the recipe for this one, if she really thinks about it, but it has been a good while since she last made it and she likes the fact that with a recipe in front of her mind is free to wander more. She almost forgets to preheat the oven, probably because it’s not actually in the directions, there’s simply a little scribbled ‘180’ in one of the corners of the card, thinks to herself that she’s not off to the best start if she’s having trouble remembering to do that. She creams together the butter and sugar first, grateful that she always leaves a pound of butter out on the counter for just this purpose, watches as the two components combine and create a delightfully fluffy result. She adds the eggs, one at a time, then the other ingredients (self-raising flour, baking powder, lemon zest), sifting in the dry ingredients. She imagines herself in that renowned white tent as she does so. Would she be calm? Jittery? Would she be the one who forgets a crucial ingredient and has to start again, or one of the many nervously knelt in front of their ovens praying that their bakes will do well?

She likes to think she’d be good at it, that being used to performing emergency surgery might give her an edge when it comes to nerves. But really, who knows? She greases her tin next, sprinkles it with flour and then knocks it about so there’s a fine coating of powder over the whole thing. She scrapes the contents of the bowl into the tin, places it in the oven, and smiles in satisfaction at a job well done. She pours the rest of the wine bottle into her glass (there wasn’t much) and drinks it slowly as she waits for her cake to bake.

When it’s done, Serena pulls the cake from the oven, gives it a few minutes to rest, then turns it out onto a cooling rack, drizzles it all over with sweet citrusy drizzle and looks at it critically. It’s gorgeous, really. Perfectly baked. She waits a couple more minutes and then cuts herself a piece and  _oh_   _yes_ , that’s the ticket right there. Light sponge, great texture, soaked in delicious syrup, melting in her mouth, sweetness cut just the right amount with the sharp lemon flavour. She doesn’t know if she’s ever made one better.

If she can bake this well during the application process she just might make it onto the show.


	2. A Lengthy Process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man I realised in my slightly-rambling author's note before I forgot to thank Crystal and Nova. They're both amazing! They keep me sane and check my stuff over and keep me motivated and I love them!  
> just so you all know I did an insane amount of research into the Bake Off selection process so please enjoy this at least semi-accurate account of it!  
> also spare me some good wishes if you can, I have an exam in the morning (I forgot that there's more to this school stuff than just the joy of not having to show up to work)

Speaking to Charlotte a few days after Cam’s initial suggestion, she had reiterated her brother’s words.

“He's right mum,” she’d said, “you're great. I'm sure you have a chance of making it.”

Far less able to deny both her children than the one, Bernie had finally agreed that she would at the very least submit an application. But she still hasn’t gotten around to it. She uses work as a very welcome excuse to keep herself from actually doing it. There's always surgeries to do, dictations to call in, charting to get done. These all take precedence: these are all concerning people’s lives. 

One week before the submission deadline occurs Bernie is forced to admit how aggressively she's been putting it off, the sole fact that she's been prioritising long-hated paperwork over it evidence enough. Her tendency to procrastinate has always been one of her worst qualities. She vividly remembers putting off breaking up with Marcus, how long she dragged it out trying to excuse her newly labelled sexuality. And even that, her identity, she procrastinated for years, excusing and ignoring feelings that should’ve been dealt with much earlier. In fact, the only thing she doesn't procrastinate is surgery. In theatre Bernie is an unstoppable force of productivity, everywhere else… well, she has a lot of experience in knowing just how long dishes can be left in the sink before they start to grow mould.

She does, finally, begin the application process. With six days to go and a promise made to her kids that she would do it, Bernie’s shocked to find the application considerably longer and more intensive than she had expected. She clicks through it, all eleven pages, and considers just not doing it. She could tell her kids she did, they would never know. She tried and never heard back, oh well, too sad, soon forgotten. Her therapist—incidentally one of the strongest and most patient people Bernie has ever met—would tell her that such dishonesty would be a disservice to her kids and the relationship she has with them, that slipping back into old habits of lying to her family would not be the wisest move. Bernie sighs, knows that they would be right, hates the feeling of knowing she should be better than she is. Life was simpler when she could just ignore everything, put it in a box and shove it away and never ever deal with it.

Simpler but not necessarily better.

The first page is just basic personal information: name, age, occupation, etc. Bernie feels a little strange writing her former career in the box where it's asked for. Would they think her trying to use her rank as a bargaining chip? Thinking that her years of service would somehow boost her ahead in the selection process?

While she was an officer Bernie hadn't minded as much. When she had been in public spaces in uniform people would salute her, defer to her, come up to her and thank her for her service; it was as much a part of the life as anything else. Now, having left, Bernie does not feel privy to the same gratitude and respect. She left. She chose to leave. It would be easier, perhaps, if she wasn’t so content, if civilian life had turned out to be the interminable prison it had always seemed to be when she was still married to Marcus. But it isn’t. After a slightly rough adjustment period Bernie has found she likes her life, she likes how much she gets to see her children, she likes her work. She finds working in ever-changing locum positions affords her a variety that keeps her engaged. She is happy. Or, at least, she is closer to happy than she ever thought she could be.

Sometimes she thinks it might be nice to have someone to come home to, someone to be with, someone to sit on the sofa with after a long day, but it doesn’t give her much pause. Perhaps it is less of a need for her because she has never been used to having someone. With Marcus she was away so often, and even when she was home there was always, always an undercurrent of tension. Tension borne of him wanting more from her than she could ever give, and tension borne of what she can now recognise as her own internalised feelings about her sexuality. With Alex, well, they never had any sort of home life, really. Never settled into that companionship of long term cohabitation. She thinks it might be nice to find a woman she could have that with, but she doesn’t really know. Besides, being alone is fine too. And dating—which she’s only tried occasionally, and never initiated—is so much effort. It’s only made her feel foolish and awkward, so she’s never pursued it.

She shakes her head, looks back down at the page, at the box in which she wrote of her time in the RAMC, shakes her head again, and soldiers on. It’s the truth, she’ll just have to leave it at that.

The application continues. She is asked about when she bakes, what she bakes, how long she’s been baking for. She can’t help but feel she’s signing away her chance of getting on the show when she explains she’s only been at it for about a year. It asks for other information too. Bernie is asked to give an example of a time when she worked under great stress and describe how she fared. This brings her back to her service again. In the broadest strokes possible she tells of one of the most stressful procedures she has ever performed. She was in the middle of working to save the life of a young man who had been hit by shrapnel when the airstrike began. She can still remember trying to find and repair all the bleeds with the ground shaking about them. Thankfully they were successful; the soldier survived, lived to see the birth of his son, sends Bernie a card every Christmas. It’s a carefully chosen tale, Bernie knows that a good outcome always makes the story more palatable. Knows that no one wants to hear the stories of the ones who don’t make it.

It’s three in the morning when Bernie finally gets to the end of the application. Her fingers are cramping slightly from all the typing, she yawns as she stretches them out. She considers leaving the application till morning, giving it one last read-through before sending it off, but decides against it. She presses the send button, closes her laptop, and heads off to bed. Figures she won’t hear anything more about it.

* * *

Serena deliberately involves both Jason and Elinor in every stage of the application process. She wants their opinions, likes having people to bounce ideas off of, and furthermore she wants them to feel included at all stages of this endeavour. The application asks her to list her best recipes, so she asks for their input, asks them which recipes they think are her best, which ones she should list where asked. The rousing ensuing debate, it is decided, can only be solved through a taste test. They choose four top recipes (almond croissants, ginger cream tart, chocolate stout cake, and olive oil potato rolls) and when the next weekend comes Serena makes all of them.

She expects Jason to take it seriously, and he does: tasting and inspecting each bake with rapt concentration, but she is pleasantly surprised to find Elinor engaging just as much. She too gives out precise lists of what she likes and dislikes about each bake, why she thinks that the ginger cream tart and the olive oil potato rolls are the best options. Jason agrees, thankfully, and Serena quickly notes down the two chosen recipes in the boxes allotted.

She goes into the history of how she started baking, working in the kitchen with her mum, and how she has continued that love of baking her whole life. She fills the essay boxes provided with as much information as possible, often, to her great annoyance, hitting the word limit on the section before she has said everything she wants to say. She tells of baking once she left home, the careful considerations she had to make when moving to the US to attend Harvard about what parts of her kitchen she would bring with her. She mentions that she even baked her own wedding cake—Edward had been aghast at that, it was her day, her time to relax, why ever would she want to go to all that effort? She quickly gave up on trying to explain to him that it had been the only thing to calm her jittery nerves.

The application also asks for a good deal of personal information: obviously the producers are trying to ensure that everyone who enters into this competition are prepared for it emotionally as well as technically. It asks her for background about her family, what kind of support network she has, and her job. Will she be able to adhere to the filming schedule? Spending as many as 10 consecutive weekends baking in the tent? She doesn’t think that will be a problem, a perk of being a department head is being able to make her own schedule. As for a support network, well, she details her friends, colleagues, and Elinor and Jason but thinks to herself that for her a support network isn’t really necessary. She’s gotten through everything else in her life—divorce, single motherhood, her career, her mother’s death—without one.

She is asked to provide examples of being able to work under pressure and that is easy, her work on AAU is a constant exercise in keeping one’s head under enormous stress. She chooses one case out of many, performing a delicate arterial repair on a very tight time limit, and feels fairly confident that few other applicants will have any stories close to beating that.

As she works through all eleven pages her excitement at the prospect of it all begins to mount. She knows it’s foolish to be so hopeful, knows she’s counting her chickens before they hatch, but she can’t really help herself. When she first thought of doing this she thought she wanted to, thought it would be fun. She wasn’t prepared to want it this badly. She doesn’t know if she’s wanted anything as much, certainly not since she was up for CEO. That dream, of running the hospital, has been well and truly laid to bed. And she’s made her peace with that, she likes Jayne, is happy she came back to Holby, and thinks she’s doing a fine job of running the hospital. But this new dream is nice, new and hopeful and thrilling.

She takes her time with the application, because of how badly she wants to do well. After she’s filled it all out she leaves it for a few days, then comes back and edits it fully. It takes another day and a half before she’s happy with the results; Serena hits send with the satisfaction that she’s given it her best effort and readies herself for the wait for a response. She doesn’t know how long it usually takes before they start calling people but figures it will be a few weeks at the least.

* * *

Bernie misses the phone call. She's elbow deep in an emergency laparotomy and returns to her phone hours later to find the notification. The voicemail says it's Anna from Love Productions and Bernie can't help the way her heart skips a beat. It's too late to call back that night so she leaves it till the morning, her mind vacillating between joy and doubt. She tells herself a call doesn't mean anything. Maybe they call everybody who applies. Even if it does mean she’s made it to the next round, she would still be far from making it through. Yet she can’t help the excitement, feels it all the way through her morning until she can sneak away for an early lunch. She steps outside to make the call, stands there looking up at the cloudy grey skies, and listen as it rings through.

“Hi this is Anna,” a cheery voice answers.

“Hello this is Bernie Wolfe. I missed a call from you yesterday.”

“Oh of course! How are you doing today Ms. Wolfe?”

“Well, thanks, and you?”

“Great, thank you. I was just calling in regard to the application you sent in for the Great British Bake Off.”

“Right. Was there a problem with it?”

“Problem? No, not at all. In fact, you’re being considered for the show. Do you have some time to talk? I’ll need about an hour of your time.”

“That’s fine, yeah.” Bernie walks over to one of the benches set up against the wall of the hospital, figures she may as make herself comfortable if it’s going to be that long of a chat.

“Let me just grab your file here,” there’s a pause and a rustling of papers, “okay. So, Bernie, you’re a trauma surgeon?”

“I am.”

“Currently working at Kings College Hospital?”

“Yes. I’ve been working as a locum for the past year or so, working at different hospitals filling in for other doctor’s vacations or leaves.”

“And before that you were a Major in the RAMC?”

“That’s right.”

“How long did you serve for?”

“25 years.”

“Must have been quite the adjustment. What made you come back?”

“My kids, mostly. They wanted to see more of me, and I think they were worried about what might happen if I went back. I was initially flown home because there was, um, an incident, I got injured. And I think facing a something like that will make you reassess your situation.”

“Of course. And you’re divorced, right?”

“Yes.”

“Single?”

“Yes.” Bernie doesn’t know how else to add to that.

“I can imagine being a surgeon would be a hard life to share with someone else.”

“Exactly,” she agrees. It’s certainly a better answer than that she’s bad at talking to people and even worse at emotional intimacy.

The interview continues with a careful examination of her life. Then, Anna moves on to baking. She clarifies with Bernie how long she’s been baking for, the simple information that’s included in her application.

“Okay, and can you tell me, right now off the top of your head how you would make a bakewell tart?”

“Do you want the amounts of each ingredient?” Bernie feels it best to clarify, certainly doesn’t want to bore this woman to tears or look like she’s showing off.

“If you can, please.”

“Well you’d start with a shortcrust pastry, rub 75 grams of butter into 175 grams of flour, then add 2 or 3 tablespoons of water. Mix it gently, you don’t want to overwork it, then I’d set it aside to chill for a bit. Roll it out, line a tin with it.”

“What kind of tin?”

“A flan tin, generally, to get the edges how they classically go. I blind bake it for about 15 to 20 minutes at 200. Then um cover the bottom with raspberry jam, which is just equal parts raspberries and sugar on low heat to dissolve the sugar, then boiled for about 5 minutes or until it’s set. Equal parts butter, caster sugar, and ground almonds. Um, about 125 grams of each. Melt the butter, stir in the sugar, then add the ground almonds, an egg, and a bit of almond extract. Pour that over the jam and then sprinkle the top with flaked almonds. And then bake it for about 30 minutes. Give or take. And then ice it. Say 80 grams of icing sugar and a couple of teaspoons of water and make the crisscrossed lines over the top.”

“That’s great, thank you.”

Anna then asks Bernie to do the same for a basic loaf of bread. Peppers her with questions about how to know when the dough's been kneaded long enough and when it’s proofed for long enough, and how to know for certain it’s baked. Bernie flies through these questions with confidence. It feels a bit like being back in med school, the long and torturous anatomy oral exams where she had to list bones and muscles and every other component of the human body from memory alone.

“Tell me about your hobbies,” Anna says after that’s over. “What do you do when you’re not working or baking?”

 _Crap_ , Bernie thinks.

“Oh dear,” she says aloud, “you’re going to think me terribly boring.” Anna laughs.

“Try me.”

“Well I bake, I go to the gym sometimes, and I read.”

“What do you read?”

“Generally? Medical journals and cookbooks.” Anna laughs again at that. “I told you!” Bernie says, “I’m very boring! Sometimes I’ll read a murder mystery. Agatha Christie or Elizabeth George, that sort of thing.”

“But mostly it’s work and baking. Fair enough.”

They go over a few other details, Anna reiterates what was all over the application (don’t tell anyone you’ve applied, don’t tell anyone about this phone call, certainly don’t tell anyone what was said) and ensures that Bernie is aware of what sort of filming schedule she would need to adhere to should she make it all the way through. And then she says her goodbyes. Bernie hangs up the phone, sits for a few minutes with the phone in her hands and feels more unsettled and unsure of her chances than she did before.

* * *

From the moment she presses send, Serena is ready for the phone call. She’s always been great at interviews, excelled at viva-voce in school, knows that she is much better in person than on paper. She keeps her phone nearby at all times, just in case. Doesn’t want to risk missing the call. Elinor jokes that Bake Off is having a positive influence on her life so far, her mum’s never been so quick at answering her texts. Serena rolls her eyes at that, but she’s happy to see her daughter engaged and happy. It’s been a long, tough road for her, for all of them, and it’s nice to feel like things might be on the upswing.

A month and a half after she sends off her application, Serena gets the phone call. She’s at Albie’s enjoying a glass of Shiraz with a couple of her colleagues when her phone rings.

“Serena Campbell,” she answers.

“Hi, this is Anna from Love Productions.”

“How are you doing this evening?”

“Great, thanks. And you?”

“Wonderful.” As they exchange these platitudes, Serena busies herself with emptying her wine glass, gathering her coat and bag, and waving goodbye to the people she was seated with.

“Do you have time to talk? I’ll need an hour or so of your time.”

“I do,” Serena says as she reaches her car, “just bear with me for a moment, I’m going to hook you up to the bluetooth in my car.” She fiddles for a bit until she gets everything connected. “There we are. Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

It’s not a long drive from Albie’s to her house, especially in the evening when most of the traffic is off the road. They spend the time going over the basic details of Serena’s application, her life, her family, her history with baking. Once home she goes straight to the smaller sitting room, makes herself comfortable on the sofa there. Anna asks for Serena to list, off the top of her head, the ingredients and method needed to make a bakewell tart. Serena does so with ease.

“What about a loaf of bread? Can you give me the recipe and method for a basic sandwich loaf please?”

“Well for a very basic sandwich loaf I would make a 70% hydration bread. Say 400 grams of flour, 280 grams of water, 1 ½ teaspoons of salt, 2 teaspoons of yeast. Proof the yeast in the water, the water should be about 40 degrees and add a pinch of sugar to the water to help out the yeast. Mix together the flour and the salt and add it gradually to the water. Once it’s all combined knead the dough until the gluten’s developed.”

“How do you know that the gluten’s developed?”

“The easiest way for me is the windowpane test, if you can take a bit of the dough and stretch it out to where it’s translucent without it breaking then the gluten’s developed enough. Or, if you form a ball with the dough and the dough stretches without breaking when you do it then you know it’s good to go. Then proof it in an oiled bowl, covered, until it’s doubled in size. Which generally takes about an hour to an hour and a half. Then press it down, shape it into a loaf and let it rise in the loaf pan for another hour. Bake at 190 for about 25 minutes and bob’s your uncle.”

“Thank you,” Anna says with a little laugh, “that’s perfect.”

They move on then, from baking to other aspects of Serena’s life.

“Any hobbies apart from baking, Serena?” she asks.

“I’m well on my way to becoming an amateur sommelier,” Serena drawls and Anna laughs again. “Mostly I keep busy with work and with my daughter and nephew, who both live with me.”

The call ends with some other small minutiae and Serena feels confident once she’s hung up that that went very well indeed.

She’s not wrong.

A week later Serena is called and asked to come down to one of the in-person castings in London. She is told to bring two bakes of her choice with her and to expect to be there the whole day. After consulting with her personal tasters, Serena decides to bring banana chocolate chip cinnamon rolls and brown butter soda bread with rosemary and black pepper. It wasn’t specified whether her bakes should be sweet or savoury, so she figures one of each is a good choice. She makes both the night before, so they’ll be as fresh as possible, wraps them carefully and places them in a hardy bag for the journey. She chooses a new blouse in a lovely maroon with a grey vest and black trousers, checks her makeup in the mirror in the hall on her way out of the house. Not bad for an old broad. She takes the train down to London, doesn’t want to spend the time in her car and knows she’ll be distracted from driving by thoughts of the day ahead.

The train is late, of course, but she’s prepared so she still has plenty of time to spare. In fact, she’s so well-prepared that she ends up arriving at the studios forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. She casts her gaze about, sees a coffee shop the next street over and decides to stop in there for a bit. She orders a medium double shot latte, looks over the array of baked goods on offer and decides to give them a pass. She sits in the cafe and drinks her coffee, looks out the window and watches people walk by.

She thinks she can spot the Bake Off hopefuls. People speed walking past, their arms wrapped protectively about bags or boxes. She smiles at that, feels privy to a secret that no one else knows.

At fifteen minutes before the time she was told to arrive, Serena drinks the dregs of her coffee, puts her rubbish in the bin, and makes her way towards the studio. As she’s leaving the coffee shop she’s almost bowled over by a tall blonde woman dashing hurriedly inside.

“Sorry,” the woman says, and she’s moved past Serena before Serena can say anything in return. At least she didn’t crush Serena’s bakes. She doesn’t have the time to go after her and give her a lecture about watching where you’re going, makes her way down the block to her destination instead. Once inside, Serena is ushered into a large waiting room. There she sits on a hard plastic chair surrounded by people exactly like her: regular British folk with precious bakes clutched in nervous hands, all hoping that they will be the one to make a lasting impression.

Most everyone’s bakes are hidden in some sort of container, but that does not stop everyone from looking around and trying to see what everyone has brought. Serena overhears a man ahead of her, who came in holding a stunning baguette, explain a little shamefully to the person beside him that he didn’t in fact bake it, but rather had just picked it up from Waitrose for his lunch. She smiles a little at that, can’t help it. She looks about just as much as everyone else, can feel herself trying to get a judgement on people based on their appearance. It’s a fascinating variety of people, and the room isn’t even that big. At best guess, Serena figures there might be about 60 people there. She wonders how many days like this they have. The scope of this competition is massive, she very much wants to know just how many people get through to each round. In the back corner of the room she sees a brief flash of blonde hair and wonders idly if it’s the woman that almost ran her over at the coffee shop. A frivolous fantasy: how odd it would be if they were to end up on the show together with such a first encounter.

Finally, or at least it feels like finally, it feels as though she’s been waiting forever, Serena’s name is called. She stands and follows the young person through to another room. There she is introduced to Anna and Faenia who try both of her bakes and ask her questions about the recipes, the method, and the source of the recipes. She answers clearly and confidently, has always performed well in situations like these. The soda bread is her mother’s recipe, tweaked and tested for years. The cinnamon rolls are of her own design, adapted from the idea of using bananas in an enriched dough and spun out from there.

After the taste test she is whisked through to another room. There there is a camera and another person and she is asked to take a seat for an interview. This is the only part about which Serena felt unsure in the leadup: she has never been in front of a camera before. She focuses on the interviewer instead of the camera lens, answers everything she is asked as best as she is able. And she throws the Campbell charm on full force for good measure, gives it everything she’s got.

When she’s finally done she walks out onto the street, blinks in the bright sunlight, and feels as though she has done her best. And really, one can do no more than that.

* * *

Bernie truly does not expect to be told that she’s made it on through to the next round in the slightest. In fact, when she does get the call she makes the woman repeat herself twice. She is asked to come down to the studio in London, to bring two bakes which she thinks demonstrate her ability and baking style, and to leave the whole day free as it may very well take that long. She chooses pastry, pain au chocolats to be exact, because she likes pastry. She likes the precision of it all, the delicacy. For her second bake, she goes with a cheddar jalapeno bread she’s only made a couple of times but that has worked beautifully each time. She bakes both carefully, double checks everything, knows that with her luck this would be the time she would confuse sugar for salt. She has them wrapped and ready to go on the counter ready for the morning.

She sleeps in, of course she does. Her alarm doesn’t go off and when she wakes of her own accord she’s running very late. She has to rush getting out of the house, digs around on the floor for a clean pair of jeans and chooses the least crumpled shirt from her chest of drawers. She shakes her hair into place, is glad that it never requires much maintenance. Leaving her flat, she almost forgets the most important thing of all: her bakes. She’s got the door locked and is turning to leave when she remembers, swears under her breath, and dashes back inside to get them.

She runs most of the way to the tube, makes it onto the train with mere moments to spare. Once she gets to the studio she looks at her watch. She still has about ten minutes to spare and she could really use a coffee. She spies a cafe just down the street and speeds over to it, almost runs a woman over as she hurries through the door.

“Sorry,” she says, doesn’t stop. The back of her brain registers that the woman is beautiful and well put together; as she waits for her coffee Bernie wonders to herself if she’s also here for the Bake Off auditions. What if they were to end up on the show together? How funny a coincidence that would be.

She dismisses that as a flight of fancy, gets her coffee, heads over to the address she has written down in her phone. When she enters the room it’s full of people sat on plastic chairs arranged in rows. Everyone’s holding packages on their knees and Bernie curiously looks about to see if she can tell what anyone else has brought. Most are wrapped in bags or kept in boxes, far from other’s prying eyes. Ahead of her she sees short dark brown hair, thinks back to the woman at the cafe, wonders if it might be her.

The wait is excruciating. Bernie has never been very good at sitting still and this is plain torture. The room empties slowly as person after person is called up, led through a doorway to places unknown. It doesn’t take her long to realise they’re going in alphabetical order. Of course. When Bernie’s name is finally called, she is one of only 4 people left.

She goes with the woman and meets a producer—Anna the woman with whom she’d spoken on the phone—and a home economist, both of whom try her bakes and ask her questions about them. From there, it’s through to another room for an interview in front of a camera. Bernie tells herself to act normal, worries desperately that she ends up looking as awkward as she feels.

When it’s all said and done, Bernie is left to walk outside into the bright sunny day, completely unsure of how she has fared. She squares her shoulders, walks towards the entrance to the tube, does her best not to agonise over every moment of her interactions, then tries to cast it all from her mind. It’s beyond her control, anyway, there’s no use dwelling on it.


	3. Lights, Camera, More Auditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of auditions are here!  
> I would be wittier but I need to go study for a midterm lol

The next part of the auditions, Serena learns a couple of nail-biting weeks after her trip to London, is to be a technical challenge. She is asked once again to come down to London. This time, however, they are to meet at a community kitchen and will be given a technical challenge, much like the ones on the show, to assess the skills of the bakers. Serena spends the week leading up to this daydreaming constantly about what the challenge could possibly be. More than once, in the midst of her many administrative duties on AAU, she finds her mind wandering off with thoughts of technically tricky bakes and how she would handle them.

When the day arrives, she takes the train down to London once more. She finds the address easily, is led to a waiting area once again filled with other hopefuls. There’s considerably fewer people this time, only fifteen compared to the sixty plus Serena remembers from the first audition. It’s also less tense this time, more friendly. They all introduce themselves, chat a bit about where they’re from, about what led them to apply to Bake Off.

There’s a huge variety in this little group, people of all ages, from all over the country. Some have only been baking for a couple of years; most, like Serena, have been doing it their whole lives. There’s even a girl, Lisa, who’s just seventeen. Serena can’t imagine having done something like this at that age, finds it stressful enough at her age with her level of experience. Once the producers are ready, they are brought through to the kitchen room. It’s chaotic. There are people all over the room, many of them camera crews readying their equipment. It’s loud, too, each group of people engaged in overlapping conversations, many raising their voices to be heard. Serena wonders if it’s like this on the set of the show. If the tent is filled with a similar cacophony, left behind on the cutting room floor. 

Eventually, someone comes along to tell the group of hopefuls where to go. Each of them gets set up at an individual workstation with a bench and an oven. On every station is a small pile covered by a red and white gingham cloth. The rest of the room gets organised as well, and the noise dies down to a quiet murmur. Anna, the producer, stands at the front of the room and announces the challenge. She tells them that they will be baking eccles cakes and they will be given two hours to do so. They all have the same ingredients, and the same basic recipe with which to work. Anything not indicated in the recipe they will have to use their experience to deduce.

They need to make eight eccles cakes, uniform in size and colour. While they work they will be filmed, people will be coming by to speak with them about what they’re doing. And just like in the show, nothing is to go in or out of an oven without a camera crew being called over to film it. Anna turns the floor over to Faenia, who gives them all a basic rundown of the ovens so that no one's bake will be hampered by unfamiliarity with the tools. When the order is finally given to start, Serena moves the cloth on her bench aside to reveal the ingredients and the recipe.

The recipe gives the amounts for the ingredients and very sparse instructions. Make a rough puff, it says, so Serena grabs a bowl, the flour, a portion of the butter, and gets to work, pausing briefly to turn her oven on before she forgets. While she cuts the butter into the flour, working it gently with her fingers to rub it in, someone comes over, camera operator in tow, and begins asking her questions. What is she doing? Why is she doing it? What does she know about this bake? How confident is she? She answers each question as it’s fired at her, does her best to concentrate on doing the best job possible on the bake, despite the distractions.

It’s amazing how quickly the time flies, with seemingly only minutes passed they are told that the challenge is halfway done. Serena is busy making her filling when she hears that, she takes a moment and moves over to do the last turn of her pastry, leaves it to rest in the fridge one final time. There’s a timer on the bench and she sets it to thirty minutes, knows she’ll be cutting it a little close for everything else but she wants to make sure the pastry is the best it can possibly be.

When the timer goes off, she pulls her pastry from the fridge, rolls it out and cuts it into rounds. She’s been given a number of different cutters, has to choose which one is the right size with no indication from the recipe. She takes half a minute to observe them all, to try to remember which size she would be using at home. Ends up picking one on the larger side but not the largest, figures it’ll have to do. Thirty minutes left, they are told. She makes quick work of rolling them all out, filling them with filling and sealing them, then using the rolling pin once more to flatten them into their distinctive shapes. When she can see the fruit just starting to poke through, she makes two small slits on the top of each and places them on the baking tray. Throughout all of this she is being bombarded with questions about her process. She approaches it in the same way she approaches teaching in theatre—is glad that she’s used to talking while her hands work—but she does think to herself that this is a far cry from the de-stressing activity she generally considers baking to be.

The recipe does not specify to use an egg wash, nor does it say to sprinkle the cakes with sugar. Serena does both. She knows going off book might be a bad idea, but she likes the shine an egg wash gives, and she can't think of an eccles cake recipe that forgoes the dusting of sugar on top. When that’s done, she calls over the nearest bloke with a camera, pops the tray in the oven, sets her timer for fifteen minutes, and has a seat on the stool at her station.

As she waits for the cakes to bake, she has her first opportunity to look about at the other bakers. Some are already done, sitting on their stools like Serena, nervously waiting for the oven to do its job. A few are hurrying about, dashing madly to get their bakes in the oven. In the back of the room she hears James, from Ipswich, bemoan that he has forgotten to preheat his oven. She feels sympathy for him, mostly. The overly competitive part of her brain feels a slight thrill at one of her contenders being out of the race. Her timer goes off and she checks on the cakes, they’re browning well, look almost done but not quite there yet. She sets her timer for three more minutes just as she hears the announcement that they have five minutes till the end of the challenge.

At three minutes (two minutes left) she pulls them out of the oven (camera observing closely of course), slides them onto the available cooling rack. They look baked, look good. It’s been ages since she’s made an eccles cake, but she thinks they look like she remembers them. Hopes they do, anyway. She looks about curiously at everyone else’s, can’t help but compare hers to theirs. Feels a thrill as she notes that hers look to be some of the best of the bunch.

They’re asked to bring their bakes up to the front of the room and mark them with little placards bearing their names. Then they’re escorted back out to the waiting area, where they’re to wait in case anything further is needed of them. They all smile and congratulate each other, very sportsmanlike, very British. They sink onto the chairs provided, share in the surprising exhaustion they all feel. Serena can hear on the other side of the room a couple of people comforting poor James.

“Bloody hell, that was exhausting!” Says the old man, Henry? No, Harry, beside her. Serena murmurs her agreement. “I think the worst part was all the people and cameras in your face, a right challenge to keep your head on with all that going on.”

“I dunno,” interjects a younger man just ahead of them. Raf, Serena remembers, Scottish but now living in London. He’s very handsome, and with that accent Serena thinks that should he be chosen for the show he’ll be the one people will write all sorts of insipid ‘Britain’s new heartthrob’ articles about. “I’ve got four kids at home, I think it’d be more of an adjustment if I weren’t being constantly distracted.” He says it with an easy laugh and Serena can’t help but smile in return.

“I suppose so,” Harry says, “the little ones spending the day with mum while you’re here then?”

Serena can feel Raf tense up at that, wonders why, thinks it’s a bit indelicate of Harry to make an assumption like that though. For all they know Raf could be divorced, or a widower.

“Uh, no,” Raf looks very uncomfortable now, “with dad actually.” There’s a pause before the implications of Raf’s words set in.

“Oh,” says Harry finally, like he doesn’t know what else to say. The tension is palpable, and Serena thinks it’s ridiculous. She feels pity on the poor lad, he came here to bake not to defend his sexuality. She immediately feels the need to interject, wants to tell Harry to sod right off, decides to go for blatant deflection instead.

“Have you got a photo of them?” Serena asks sweetly, “the family, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah I do,” Raf says and Serena can see the relief on his face. He pulls out his phone and presses about till he finds one, turns the screen so she can see it. It’s a lovely photo, looks professional, set in a park in autumn, the kids’ noses red from the cold, piles of bright leaves all about them. “That’s Evie,” Raf says, pointing to the oldest of the kids, “always a little bit of a trial living with a teenager, but she’s very smart. Wants to be a surgeon when she grows up.” Next, he points to a boy a few years younger, “that’s Mikey. Right rascal that one, but he keeps us young. Then there’s Ella,” he’s pointing at a girl, three or four by Serena’s reckon, “and Theo, the youngest.”

“Terrible twos?” Serena asks.

“Almost! He’ll be two in a couple of months here, but he’s practicing hard for the ‘terrible’ moniker, let me tell you.”

“They’re lovely,” Serena says, and it’s true. They make for a beautiful family. “And is that your, um, partner?”

“My husband, Fletch,” he blushes a little, like he’s still getting used to saying it, changes tracks immediately, “do you have any kids?”

“Just the one, a daughter, Elinor. She’ll be twenty-two this year; enjoy them while they’re young.”

Raf laughs at that. She makes pleasant conversation with him until Anna comes to thank them all for their time and let them know they’re free to go. Serena ends up a couple of people behind Raf as they all bunch into the doorway, eager to get back out into the real world. She sees his family seated on a bench near the entrance to the building, watches as the kids leap up and run to give him hugs, as he kneels down to hug them back and then stands and kisses his husband hello. Such a lovely young man, she earnestly hopes he makes it onto the show. Thinks that if he does and she doesn’t she’ll definitely root for him to win it.

She takes the train back to Holby, is greeted by her own family at the train station when she returns, both Jason and Elinor eagerly waiting to hear how it all went. She hugs them both tightly, links arms with them, one on either side of her, as they head out to the car. A solid effort behind her and her two favourite people flanking her: Serena feels light as air.

* * *

For Bernie, the day of her second audition starts much better than the first. She wakes up on time, had the forethought to lay out a (clean) outfit the night before, even has the time to stand in front of the mirror and consider putting on makeup or doing something with her hair. She chooses not to, in the end, figures if they’re going to choose her they might as well choose  _her,_ not some facsimile of a better version of herself. Plus, it’s a television show, if they want her to wear makeup they’ll no doubt have people to do it for her. She gets to the community kitchen where the audition is held with time to spare, grabs a coffee from a place nearby (does  _not_ almost commit grievous bodily harm in hurry), and then goes to wait with everyone else who’s gotten this far.

Once again there’s a waiting area full of chairs, though it’s much smaller this time. Bernie counts fifteen chairs, most of which are filled by the time she takes her seat. She wonders how many of these technical trials they hold, curious to know just how many people made it through to this stage. All around her people are talking, sharing stories of baking, thoughts as to what the technical challenge will be, telling the others about their lives. Bernie doesn’t join in, has never felt at ease conversing with strangers, only really knows how to be a doctor with other people and feels the ‘I’m about to cut you open with a scalpel’ approach probably won’t work here. So she sits there, restlessly tapping her foot on the ground as she waits for the day to proceed.

“Nervous?” asks a young man beside her. She hadn’t even noticed him sit down.

“Restless,” she shoots back. He laughs,

“Fair enough. I’m Dom,” he holds out his hand and Bernie takes it, shakes it firmly.

“Bernie,” she says.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it? Even getting this far.” His grin is eager, Bernie can feel him practically vibrating with energy.

“Mmmm, it is. I, um, definitely didn’t expect to be here. Ever.”

“Not me,” Dom replies, startling her.

“Oh?”

“Shoo in from the start.” He winks, and Bernie laughs at that. He’s surprised her into her full laugh, loud and odd as it is, and the sound of it makes Dom dissolve into laughter himself. They’re still regaining their composure when a young production aid comes to get the group. He brings them through to a room filled with kitchen workstations. Each of them gets assigned to one of the stations and asked to wait for further instructions, and not to touch anything while they do so. As she stands at hers, Bernie looks about. Her bench has a pile of things on top of it, covered with a gingham cloth, as do all the others. No doubt the ingredients for what they’ll be making.

The room is bustling, filled with people and camera crews milling about. A woman stands at the front of the room and gathers everyone’s attention, introduces herself as Anna, one of the producers of the show. Bernie recognises her as one of the judges of the food she brought for the first round of auditions. Anna tells them they’ll be baking eccles cakes, goes over the basic idea of the technical. They are to have two hours, they are to make 8 eccles cakes, identical in size, shape, and bake, they are to work off of the recipe provided and their own technical knowhow, they are to call over camera crews before they put anything in or pull anything out of an oven, they should expect to be asked questions as they work. They are being tested on everything from baking skill to composure on film. The other judge from the first auditions, Faenia, shows them how to use their ovens, and then just like that they’re ready to begin.

Anna tells them to go ahead and start, starts a large timer at the front of the room, and they all hurry to work. Bernie pulls away the cloth on her bench, brings the recipe towards her, and reads it over quickly. The oven temperature is specified, 200 degrees, but no baking time is mentioned. She preheats her oven before she does anything else, would hate to forget that of all things. The instructions are sparse but, by Bernie’s judgement, fair. The first line says to ‘make a rough puff’ so Bernie starts with that. This, right here, this is what she knows and loves. Following the time-honoured traditions to an end with which she can be pleased. She’s made eccles cakes before, though it was a few months ago, but she remembers it well enough to feel fairly confident. As she’s busy making a well in her butter and flour mixture for her water, one of the many people in the room—a production person of some sort, Bernie’s sure—comes up, camera operator in tow, and starts asking her questions. She wants to know what Bernie’s doing, so Bernie explains it, as clearly and concisely as she would explain a surgical method to an F1. Then she wants to know why, so Bernie answers that too. She takes care not to get too technical, or too detailed. She doesn’t want to overwhelm them with information, thinks that for a show like Bake Off the average viewer at home probably doesn’t need a fifteen minute soliloquy on the origins of rough puff. It’s a little strange, having someone constantly hovering as she bakes, but she finds she doesn’t mind it too dearly. As before, she thinks of every answer as though to the medics she spent a large portion of her life training. She’s used to talking while her hands move, used to explaining her movements to carefully listening ears.

That being said, it’s not easy. Just like performing surgery while describing her actions was a skill Bernie had to learn, she quickly finds that describing her movements in a kitchen while she does them is something at which she’ll need to practice. It makes concentrating on the baking side of the equation that much more challenging, and this is not a time when she can afford to mess up. Good enough might work with her bakes when it’s just her and her kids—Cam wolfs down half the things she makes so quickly he probably doesn’t even taste them—but it’s not going to fly here.

She takes extra care then in timing the turns of her pastry, and in making sure it will have enough time to rest before being rolled out and cut. She double checks everything for the fillings, makes sure she’s putting things in in the right quantity and the right order. They give the warning for halfway through just as she’s putting her pastry into the fridge for its final rest. She finishes preparing the filling, checks her clock and notes she still has another ten minutes before she’s due to pull her pastry out of the fridge, so she stops and takes a moment to look about at everyone else.

It’s hectic, for sure, people are dashing about madly everywhere, stirring fillings in pots, folding dough, rolling out dough. And amidst all of that is people from the show asking strings of questions, cameras carefully recording as the bakers answer, operators leaning in to get the perfect angle on this piece of pastry or that bowl of filling.

Bernie turns back to her own work, pulls her pastry out of the fridge and begins rolling it out. She gets it to a thickness she’s happy with before choosing a cutter. The size isn’t specified in the recipe, so she uses the one that will allow her to use as much of the pastry as possible while being small enough that she can get 8 rounds out of it. She doesn’t want to re-roll any of the cuttings like she might at home, even that little bit of extra work could make one of her cakes just that smidge tougher, ever so slightly less flaky.

She measures out the filling for each round carefully, bunches the pastry at the top of each once it’s filled, using water to help the dough stick. Then, she turns them over, pats them down, rolls them to the point where the fruit is just about the burst through the top. She cuts two little slits in the top of each of them and places them on a prepared baking tray. Then she stops for a moment, carefully considering the recipe. It doesn’t call for either an egg wash or sugar on top, but Bernie uses both. She knows the egg wash might make it harder to see when the cakes are done but she doesn’t think they’ll look as good without them. As for the sugar, well, is it truly an eccles cake without the dusting of sugar? Bernie doesn’t think so.

They were told to use their baking knowledge and instincts, so Bernie goes with hers. She brushes her cakes all over with an egg wash, then dusts them with sugar before placing them in the oven, and she carefully explains the rationale behind her choices to the camera hovering nearby. Once her cakes are in the oven, there’s not much more to do but wait. She takes a seat on a nearby stool and once again takes the chance to observe what everyone else is doing. A few, like herself, are already done, just waiting for their cakes to bake. Bernie spies Dom across the room, he’s also sitting on a stool and observing everyone else. When their eyes meet he gives her a playful wink and she smiles a little in return. A bit of a rascal that one, but she likes his spirit. She hopes he does well.

Most everyone else is still in the mad dash to finish everything off and get their cakes in the oven. There’s only about twenty minutes left, if they’re not quick about it their cakes won’t be baked through. As she watches them, Bernie wonders if she looked much the same when she was working. Did she look as frantic, as panicked? Probably. She reckons everyone does in situations like this. Eventually everybody gets their bakes into their ovens, and then the room is filled with tension as they all sit and wait. It's a curious sensation, really, your fate being in the hands of a machine you can’t control. It's palpable. When Bernie's timer goes off she opens her oven and takes a look at the cakes. They're baking well, evenly, but they're not quite done. She closes the door, waits for another two minutes.

She almost forgets to call a camera operator over, remembers at the last moment that most important of instructions. One comes over, carefully films her as she pulls the tray out and sets it on the counter. She tips one of the cakes over and checks the bottom. Looks good. She slides them all onto the available cooling rack and waits for everyone else to finish.

After it's done, bakes labelled and left at the front of the room to be judged, they're asked to wait in the waiting area for a while longer, just until the producers are sure there's nothing else they need. There's a collective sigh of relief from all the contestants as they sit down: baking in that environment was surprisingly exhausting.

“Go okay?” Dom asks, he's sat down beside her again.

“I think so. You?”

“I sure hope so. Proof of the pudding though,” he shrugs and Bernie nods.

“True enough.”

She doesn't say any more, and he doesn't either, but she finds she likes this young man’s presence. Doesn't feel pressured to speak as they sit side by side and listen to everyone talking about them. It's probably only about thirty minutes or so that they spend waiting, then Anna comes out and thanks them for their time, lets them know they're free to go.

As she steps out onto the street, into a drizzly grey London day, Bernie sees many of the contestants being greeted by excited family members, hugging them and asking them how it all went.

“Bernie!” She hears behind her and she turns around to see Dom jogging to catch up. “Wanna go for a drink? Relax from the stress of the day?”

She wants to ask him why the hell he’s latched onto her, of all the people in that room.

“No boyfriend or family waiting expectantly to hear about your day?” She says instead.

“What makes you think I’m gay?” he shoots back in place of an answer and Bernie flounders for the right thing to say. He must see the panic on her face because he takes pity on her after a moment. “Sorry I couldn’t resist,” he says with a laugh. “No boyfriend at the moment for me. What about you? No wife or girlfriend waiting around?”

His words take her by surprise for a moment, but she regains her composure quickly.

“Touché.”

“Please, it’s not like either of us is exactly trying to hide it,” he says with an expressive eye roll. Bernie looks down at what she’s wearing—black skinny jeans, white shirt, loose grey waistcoat type thing—she didn’t think it made her look gay, per se, in fact she’s fairly certain she bought each item of clothing before she came out. Then again what does she know? It’s not like there are classes she can take on how to be a lesbian.

“I guess three is late enough to start drinking,” she says, looking down at her watch.

“Of course it is! Anyway, it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

“Alright then,” Bernie gives in. “Let’s go get ourselves a drink. First round’s on you though.”

“Fair enough.”

There's a pub just down the street called 'The Roof' that they make their way towards, they duck inside just as the rain starts to pour.

* * *

After the technical, they’re called back one more time. The show wants them to have an interview with a trained psychologist to ensure that all contestants will be able to handle the rigours of filming. Bernie worries about this aspect of the auditions more than any of the others. She arranges a block of time on a Sunday to meet with the man, sits down in the cushy armchair and traps her hands under her thighs to keep herself from fidgeting. Bernie’s never been very comfortable in things like therapy. She goes to therapy, sure, but half the time she sits there, says she’s fine, and dances around all of the important issues she should be dealing with. And anyway, this is different, this is very different.

With her own therapist she can be as open and honest as she wants, knowing it won’t be used against her for anything but what Bernie considers an almost sadistic desire to make her face personal growth. But this? Well, emotionally inept does not a Bake Off contestant make. She answers the questions she is asked and does her best to seem as normal as she can. It goes smoothly, over all, she thinks. It’s hard to say. Like with every other step of the application process the results are not shared with them, and though Bernie hates not knowing where she stands she thinks getting feedback about her mental state would be even worse.

* * *

When Serena first hears she needs to have an interview with a psychologist she doesn’t think much about it. She’s fine, she’s a highly functional person, she’s a surgeon for christ’s sake. She hasn’t been to therapy in years. She went when she was struggling with depression, decades ago, learned all the CBT tricks and never felt the need to go back: she’s always been very good at taking care of herself. So she arranges a time to go down to London, meet with this man, prove to him that she is eminently well suited for this competition.

It’s a few days before she remembers just how good psychologists are at working the truth out of you. After that she worries considerably more. The thing is, she realises that her life is maybe just a bit of a mess right now. Well, not a mess. But it’s complicated for sure. And she in no way shape or form wants those complications to impact her chances of making it onto the show.

When the day arrives for her interview, Serena uses her considerable magnetism in her favour. She turns on the charm, acts so much like nothing is amiss in her life that even she almost believes it. She walks out of the assessment confident that she’s not hurt her chances in the slightest.

* * *

They were told, during the second audition, to expect quite a lengthy wait before hearing anything. The producers and casting agents needed to go through all the footage, review the psychologist’s findings then compare that to performances at the first audition and the original applications. So when Serena doesn't hear anything for the first few weeks, she tells herself not to worry. At the one month mark she will admit to being a bit concerned, at the two month mark she decides that that's that. She hasn't made it, she needs to move on with her life.

One week later after she’s given up all hope, she gets a phone call. She’s told that they'd like to come by and film a few scenes with her, at work and at home. She should prepare for a couple of scenes of her baking in her kitchen and enjoying her bakes with her family. She's completely stunned, enough so that it takes her a couple of moments to be able to reply.

“Is this another audition?” she asks. She has to know.

“No,” they tell her. “This is for the show, Ms. Campbell. You have been selected as one of the contestants for this year’s Great British Bake Off.”

Serena just barely contains the impulse to pump her fist into the air with joy—figures it would be an odd sight considering she's in her office at work. She gets permission from the Love Productions representative to tell Ms. Grayson, explains that not a jot of filming will get down in the hospital without her sign off.

The day of the filming goes smoothly, Jayne and Serena agreed on a cover story (filming a tour of AAU for the board) for anyone curious about why the ward’s lead consultant suddenly has a film crew following her around. There’s not much they’re able to film, what with the rules of confidentiality and all that, but they get some good shots of Serena going about her daily routine.

When they’re done at the hospital, they come to her house to continue the filming there. They film Serena baking a pie in her kitchen, then sitting down at the table with Elinor and Jason with an impressive looking cake Serena had made the day before, doling out slices to each. They interview all three of them, asking them how they feel about Serena being on Bake Off. All in all, Serena would count it as a decidedly positive experience. Of course, who knows what everything will look like once it hits the editing room, she knows she has to let that go, be happy with it all however it goes but it's hard to relinquish control, extremely hard in fact to let some strangers decide how she will be portrayed in front of the entire country.

When the day’s over and the film crews and producers and myriad other persons (Serena never previously realized just how many people are involved in the filming process) have all left, she sits down on her sofa with a weary sigh, pours herself a hefty glass of Shiraz and knows she's earned it.

* * *

At the second audition they do tell everyone that it will take a long time for them to go through everything and make their final decisions, that the call-backs will take considerably longer this go around, no one should expect a call too soon. Bernie accepts that, thinks to herself that she’s looking at weeks to months before she hears either way. So she does what she does with everything she really wants in life: assumes she’ll never get it and moves on.

It's probably close to three months after that second audition that Bernie gets a phone call. It's seven o'clock on a Tuesday and she's on her way out of the hospital when her phone starts to ring. She answers it, is greeted by George from Love Productions. She's informed that they want to come to her house and her work, film a scene with her kids as well, to get a nice glimpse into her life. Bernie’s unsure if this means she’s made it or if this is some final piece of the selection process. She feels awkward asking for clarification, worries she’ll sound desperate, so she agrees with George on a day that will work and lets it be.

“Of course it means you’ve made it!” Charlotte says later when Bernie phones her up. “Why else would they want to come and film you?”

“Maybe… But anyway, you’re missing the point of the phone call Lottie, I need you to come to London for the day so you can be in this thing. Whatever it ends up being.”

Charlotte agrees, as does Cameron when Bernie speaks to him later, to come to her place for the day and be filmed for the show.

Bernie has to get special permission from her boss to have a film crew follow her around the hospital for half a day. It’s a little strange, explaining to him why this is necessary, and it’s even stranger trying to play it off to all of her colleagues who wonder what the hell is going on once it actually happens. Overall it goes better than expected. Bernie doesn’t trip over her own feet, or accidentally punch anyone in the face, or end up going through the whole ordeal in just her pants, or fulfil any of the other horrible anxiety-ridden dreams her brain manages to come up with in the days leading up to it.

They want to see her home as well, so Bernie cleans her little flat more vigorously than, well, than she ever has probably. She’s asked to choose a recipe to bake with them filming, ends up making the same cheddar jalapeno loaf she brought to the first audition. The camera crew dutifully records bits of the process, and then films her sitting down in the sitting room with her children with a nice looking plaited loaf she had made the day before and serving them each a piece. It’s about halfway through the day that Anna confirms to Bernie that yes, she has made the cut, and she will be one of this year’s contenders on the Great British Bake Off.

Once the whole crew has left, Bernie ends the day with her kids, sat on the sofa between them with both of their legs in her lap as they make wild predictions about what sort of baker she’ll be in the tent. She can’t help but laugh as their ideas get stranger and stranger and, funnily enough, she feels rather at peace with the whole thing. Excited, yes, she’s always game for a new challenge, but she feels she’s going into it with her head on right: she’ll do her best and she’ll see how she does. Not much more to it than that.


	4. Meet This Year's Contestants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look y'all, raf n fletch is the hill I'm gonna die on. i love those husbands and i will never accept that fletch moved out or w.e the show is supposedly telling me.  
> this was a super fun chapter to write! making up everyone's backstories is the thing I love most about creating AUs so I hope you guys enjoy the versions of everyone I've written here.  
> big thanks today to sarah (@delightfullyambiguous on the tumblr) for being my British expert in chief. She helped me decide where all the contestants would be from and puts up with like a thousand instances a day of me going "wait what do y'all call this in british".  
> and thanks of course to all of you for reading :)

From that point on, things only get more hectic for the both of them. Each week, each day even, sees their inboxes filled with challenge parameters. Bake Off is not for the faint of heart. They have to submit recipe ideas for each challenge, bake through the idea—recording each step along the way—and then send everything off to Love Productions. It’s harrowing work, especially as the producers send back tweaked parameters, or ask for certain things to be changed here and there. This decoration won’t be allowed in the challenge, that technique can’t be used due to time, and on and on it goes.

Serena’s colleagues start to become accustomed to an ever growing pile of treats in the breakroom: she, Elinor, and Jason certainly can’t keep up with the endless stream of delicious food leaving her kitchen. Bernie’s kids start visiting more and more frequently, and leave with bags of baked goods each time, to be shared amongst their friends. Cameron texts her the day after one such visit to inform her that his friends have started referring to her as ‘the gluten fairy godmother’, a moniker Bernie finds slightly embarrassing though not, on the whole, incorrect.

It’s no small feat, keeping pace with the demands of preparation and both find themselves wondering, at different points, what the hell it is they’ve gotten themselves into.

In response to any qualms, Serena pours herself into the creativity of the recipes, reminds herself of everything she loves about baking by playing with the designs and the flavour combinations. When she gets slightly too adventurous, the cool heads of her official taste testers prevail. Elinor and Jason may not the most diplomatic people around, but thank heavens, Serena thinks to herself, that neither of them has any problem speaking their true minds.

As for Bernie, she conquers any anxiety she might feel about Bake Off, any questioning of why she has chosen to do this absurd thing, through repetition. She’s always felt safest and calmest when she knows something so well she can’t forget it. That was one of the first things Bernie loved about the army, it drilled things into her so firmly that she had no hope of forgetting them; she takes the same approach here. She practices and practices, does little more than go to work and bake and sleep. Her life is equal quantities blood and flour, she jokes to Charlotte one evening, who doesn’t find that nearly as funny as Bernie thinks it is.

One wall of Serena’s kitchen gets overtaken by a massive calendar, carefully filled in with all of the challenges and what she’ll be baking for each of them. She doesn’t want to be overconfident, planning right through to the finale, but she wants even less to be underprepared.

Bernie has a list, somewhere, of when each bake is. She doesn’t know if she’ll need it, so she concentrates on being ready for everything while not letting herself believe she’ll get past round one. She’s waking up in the middle of the night with words like ‘crumb’ and ‘lamination’ on the tip of her tongue, so she figures she’ll be okay for as far as she gets.

By the time filming rolls around, the most either of them can say is that they’re as ready as they're ever going to be.

* * *

When that first week finally arrives, Serena greets it with a mixture of joy and relief: she can’t quite believe she’s actually made it here. The producers have asked everyone to show up earlier than they’d normally need to on the Friday, they want to take the contestants out for dinner and introduce them. So Serena leaves work early, goes home and collects the case she’d packed the day before, throws a couple of last minute items in it, and catches a taxi to the train station. It’s just under an hour to Bath and she makes it to the hotel well on time. As she stands in the lobby, she realises she doesn’t actually know where she’s supposed to go from there. She walks up to the reception desk and gives them her name, figures that’s as good a place to start as any.

“Of course Ms. Campbell,” the lovely young man—Alec according to his name tag—at the desk says. “You’ll be in room 504 for your stay with us this weekend. And I believe your group is already meeting in the one of the conference rooms on the second floor. If you'd like to join them immediately, I can have your things brought to your room.”

“Thank you. That would be great.” She surrenders her coat and her case to Alec, then follows him through to one of the room in question. There’s only a couple of other people in the room when she walks in, but she recognises Anna, so she walks up to her and says hello. They chat for a little bit, then Anna moves on to mill about the other contestants. Serena can already see little groups forming, wonders if everyone has congregated with people they met in one of the auditions. A couple of minutes pass, then Raf comes in the room.

“Raf!” She greets him warmly, “glad to see you here.”

“Hi Serena,” he says with a grin, “glad to be here. Can't say I'm surprised to see you here though, if you do as well in the tent as you did in our technical none of us will have a chance.”

She brushes that compliment off with a little wave of her hand and a dismissive snort.

“How's the family?” she asks.

“Great thank you. Very excited about all of this.”

“I bet! Nice for you to have a little squadron of cheerleaders at home, too.”

“It is,” he chuckles nervously, “a little stressful though, if I’m honest. I think the hardest part has been impressing on Ellie that no, she can’t tell everyone at daycare that Papa’s in Bake Off.”

“Oh dear,” Serena says, “poor girl must just be bursting with the news.”

“She’d tell the whole street if she could.”

They chat for a bit longer as everyone else shows up, and Serena keeps a casual count of everyone she thinks to be one of the bakers. When it seems like everyone is amassed Anna tells them they’re just waiting on one last person, and then they’ll head out to dinner. It’s a couple of minutes before that last person rushes in, breathless and apologetic. She’s around Serena’s age, tall and lanky, with short blonde hair amassed in messy waves about her face. Serena isn’t sure, has no way of knowing for certain, but she could swear that it’s the same woman who almost bowled her over in the doorway to the coffee shop before the very first audition.

How very strange, she thinks, that they would have met initially like that and would now be on the show together. She remembers only registering messy blonde hair and long, long legs at the time but she’s convinced it’s the same woman. She’ll just have to ask her about it later, find a way to casually bring it up.

With all of them in tow, they are taken to a nearby Italian restaurant, there’s a private room in the back where they set up, all sit down, and Anna and the others leave them to get acquainted.

“One of the things we really value on the show,” she explains before she goes, “is that everyone has a really good relationship with each other. Since the first season we’ve fostered an environment of cooperation and friendliness, despite it being a competition. So we want you all to get to know each other. We’ll leave you alone to share as you wish, though please do remember to keep the talk about what exactly it is we’re all doing here quiet while anyone else is around.”

They’re mostly quiet as everyone seats themselves, starts leafing through their menus. There’s a low murmur, the ‘what do you think you’re going to get’ back and forth of people out to eat together. After they’ve all ordered there’s a lull, it’s a bit overwhelming really, a sudden group of complete strangers coming together like this.

“Well,” a man a few seats down from Serena speaks up, “I guess we should probably all introduce ourselves.” He’s quite handsome, maybe a few years older than she. “My name’s Ric, I’m from Winchester, and I own and run a boxing gym there.” He grins, easily confident, “and as I’m sure you’ll all find out, as everyone seems to love bringing it up, I have a whopping five ex-wives.” Everyone laughs at that. He turns to the man beside him, “Go on then.”

“I’m Sacha,” he’s a chubby man of about the same age, wearing an absolutely horrid floral shirt. “I live in Banbury with my wife Helen and I work as an insurance broker, and I absolutely cannot believe I’ve made it on the show,” his laugh is nervous and everyone else chortles along, nodding in agreement.

Essie is next, a stay at home mum from Canterbury with three children almost grown.

“Teenagers, eh?” Serena says sympathetically and Essie nods.

“Never a dull moment, that’s for sure,” she replies.

Then there’s Mo, who grew up in London but lives and works in Cardiff at a tech start-up. She’s got an 8 month old baby at home, quips about how much she’s looking forward to being able to sleep through the night while she’s here. Morven, sitting beside Mo, is 23, which they quickly confirm makes her the youngest baker this year. She’s from Cambridge, teaches reception, and lives with her fiancé Arthur. She’s eager, Serena can see, and her smile is wide. It’s nice to see the variety of ages and backgrounds amassed around the table. After Morven comes Zosia, almost as young, living and working in Exeter as a plumber. Unmarried, she makes a casual comment about a partner—gender unspecified. Henrik lives in Oxford, is an accountant for an accounting firm and he dryly quips that he knows that it’s essentially the most boring job in the world. He grew up in Sweden but has lived in England for most of his adult life.

Jac is next, Serena’s been calling her ‘cheekbones’ mentally up until that moment because  _wow_ they are truly something. She looks a little terrifying, if Serena’s perfectly honest, but she seems nice enough. A little cool, perhaps, but who’s to judge. She works as an executive, undefined beyond that which makes Serena wonder just how high up in whatever organisation she works for she is, in Manchester. She says nothing further about her personal life. Raf comes next.

“I’m Raf,” he says to everyone. “Hi. I’m a solicitor, I live in London with my husband and our four kids.”

“And I thought three was a handful,” Essie says, “I can’t imagine four!”

“It’s a little hectic, that’s for sure,” he tells her with that rueful smile—like he can’t believe his own luck—that Serena’s noticed appears each time he talks about his family.

And then it’s Serena’s turn.

“Well hi everyone. My name’s Serena, I’m a surgeon, and I live in Holby. I lead the Acute Assessment Unit at my hospital, and my grown daughter and nephew both live with me.”

She turns to the next person, a young man who introduces himself as Dom. Dom works for a fashion mag in London and is currently single.

“I’m assuming however,” he says with a grin, “that after the show starts airing there’ll be loads of beautiful young men queueing up to date me.”

“Good luck,” Raf shoots back to everyone’s great amusement.

Last, certainly not least by Serena’s estimation, is Bernie. The one who was late earlier. She looks up through a messy fringe as she introduces herself.

“I, um, I’m also a surgeon,” she says with a nod to Serena. And that certainly arouses Serena’s curiosity. She wonders what she specialises in, she’ll have to pull her aside later and get more information. “I work in London at the moment, but I’ve been filling locum positions all over ever since I left the RAMC.” She bites her lip after she says that, it makes Serena wonder if she meant to let that piece of information out.

They’re interrupted as food and drinks arrive and talk dies down in favour of eating. It resumes though, natural and easy, and Serena find she already likes this group of people. There’s a flow to the conversation, a nigh instant camaraderie. They talk about baking, because of course they do. Serena shares how she grew up baking with her mom, Morven tells of a home economics course at school where she learned her love of all things cooking related.

“I was driven by the heart,” Dom pipes up. “I was nine years old and there was a boy in one of my classes, Rick Smith, and he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever met in my whole life. I was absolutely infatuated with him and I was convinced that if I baked him a perfect birthday cupcake he would like me back. The day of his birthday I brought what was, in retrospect, probably the worst cupcake ever made to school and gave it to him.”

“And?” Morven prompts, “did he fall in love with both you and the cupcake?”

“No, no he didn’t. I’m fairly certain he binned it actually.”

“The trials of young love,” Ric says.

“Indeed,” Dom agrees, then adds, “but I got to third base with him in sixth form, so all was not lost.”

They all have a good laugh at that and the conversation moves on. At a pause between discussions, Jac turns to Raf.

“Four kids you said? That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah well it’s a bit,” he shrugs and there’s that smile again, “it’s a bit of a long story, really.”

“Oh come on,” Serena prompts, as curious as any of them. “Isn’t that what we’re here for? To get to know each other?”

The others agree vociferously and Raf is swayed.

“Well, okay then,” he begins. “I mentioned I work as a solicitor. I’ve been at the same firm for years, started there right after I was admitted, and I’ve been there ever since. Fletch, my husband, he’s been working there for years too, longer than I have actually. He’s a paralegal there, one of the best, and he was one of the first people to talk to me when I started there. We’d go out for drinks after work and the like and we ended up becoming mates, best mates really. His wife died a couple years ago, not long after the birth of their youngest and Fletch, well, it was a hard time. He struggled financially, really struggled. I knew it was bad, I lent him money a couple of times, but I didn’t know how bad. And then he and the kids, at work we always called them the ‘Fletchlings’, they got evicted from their home. I found out after a week, they were staying in some grotty little motel, it was just an awful situation all around, so I offered to let them all stay with me.”

“Wow,” Serena can’t help but interject.

“That’s generosity mate,” Mo agrees.

“Trust me when I say I had no idea what living with four children was really like when I offered,” he jokes. “I wasn’t, I mean, I had no intentions at the start. We were friends, but we weren’t anything more than that. Not for a long time. It wasn’t weird, really, I mean some people thought it was, but it was mostly just two mates living together and raising the one mate’s kids. It’s actually why I started baking more. Four bottomless little pits moved in and started eating me out of house and home. And then, well,” he ducks his head and Serena can see the hint of blush on his cheeks, “I guess one day I turned around and I was in love with him. I loved Fletch, I loved the kids, I couldn’t imagine my life without them. It took a while, a long while before I knew it wasn’t unrequited.” He smiles ruefully, “there was a lot of secret pining, for sure. I didn’t think anything would ever come of my feelings, but well, something did.”

“How did you find out that he liked you back?” Morven asks.

“Oh,” Raf laughs a little, blushes deep red, “it’s silly, really. We, um, we got in a fight. I honestly don’t remember about what, the dishes maybe? Or one of the kids?” he shrugs, “blew up into some big tiff and suddenly I was shouting ‘because I love you’ and then everything stopped. I was petrified until he managed to choke out that he loved me too. Such a cliché, isn’t it? But that’s how it happened.” He’s smiling now, an earnest wide smile, and his eyes are lit up and Serena can see the love there, can see how much he so obviously adores this man and it’s just beautiful. What a story, truly. Like a sort of modern fairy tale.

“How long have you been married for?” Dom asks.

“Almost a year. Actually, next weekend is our anniversary, so I told Fletch either I go out this week and I get to be home for that or I make it through. He promised not to get angry if I miss out on celebrating with him cause I’m here baking.”

“Nice to have the family at home rooting for you,” Ric says and Raf smiles, nods.

“I don’t know if he should be talking to you about marriage, Ric,” Serena can’t help but make the teasing jab and Ric laughs harder than anyone at it.

“You could say I’m the best person for him to talk to,” he shoots back, “I know all the pitfalls there are to marriage.”

“What’s your number one tip then,” Morven asks, “for a happy life?”

“For me, personally? It’s never get married,” Ric says. “But for those of you with what I hope is considerably better taste in partners than I, I would say that as old and tired as it sounds communication is really key. Talk about your feelings. Bottling them all up and taking them out on a punching bag later is a pretty good way to end up divorced.”

“Marrying the right person certainly helps,” Bernie adds, and it’s one of the few times she’s spoken up during the conversation. "Marrying someone just for the sake of getting married is, as I'm sure you could guess, a very bad idea.”

Serena can’t help but wonder at the story there.

“Don’t marry a lying, cheating bastard,” Serena throws in her own two cents. Everyone looks at her, shocked, and she shrugs, completely nonchalant. “Embittered ex-wives club, I’m a fully paid up member.” They all laugh at that. Bernie catches her gaze, then, looks at her curiously before looking away and Serena can’t help the feeling that she wants to talk to her, wants to get to know her better. It’s kind of funny, that instinctual pull you sometimes feel to another person. It makes her think of summer camp when she was a girl, when you would meet everybody all at once and you’d be sizing them up, trying to figure out which girl was going to be your best friend for those precious two weeks. And when you found that person it was immediate and totally reciprocal, you just looked at each other and you both knew that that would be your person.

They finish up with dinner, their plates are cleared away, and the waitstaff place a long platter of baked goods on the centre of the table. Dom is quick to snatch a tart from the array, flips it over and drags his fork along the bottom.

“No soggy bottom here,” he proclaims and they all roar with laughter. Serena’s two glasses of shiraz in, sated and full from a lovely meal, and having the time of her life. If it weren’t for the niggling nerves at the prospect of tomorrow’s competition, this would be perfect.

“So Bernie,” Serena says leaning forward, “you mentioned you were in the RAMC.”

* * *

Bernie's day starts out in a mad rush. She hasn't packed, hasn't really figured out what she was going to wear, ends up making a panicked last minute phone call to Charlotte for advice.

She’s late getting out of the city and thus late getting into Bath. She rushes into the hotel, almost chucking her keys at the valet, and hurries up to the front desk where she bounces on her toes impatiently as she waits in the short queue.

When Bernie makes it to the room where the group’s gathered she ruefully notes that they've all been waiting on her. As soon as she makes it through the door everyone turns to look at her and she stands there, tries to catch her breath, and tries to ignore the fact that everyone’s eyes on her. She catches sight of Dom in the crowd, is glad to see at least one familiar face. He grins, winks at her, and she gives a little nod in return.   
As they walk over to a little Italian bistro down the road, Bernie has the chance to take a better look at everyone. Much to her chagrin she notices amongst them the woman she nigh ran over on the morning of the first audition. Oops. She wonders if the woman remembers her.   
They get settled in at the restaurant and begin to talk. It's nice getting to know everyone, Bernie happily sits back and listens mostly, doesn’t feel the need to speak up too much. Conversation flows as freely as the wine at the restaurant and Bernie is very glad to see a comfortable camaraderie forming. It's a bond born of mutual anticipation, the knowledge that whatever they're in for they're all in for it together. It doesn’t feel overly competitive, even though Bernie knows in some ways it must be. It reminds her of the army, actually, friendship forged in fire. She likes seeing how each person distinguishes themselves as well, already falling into the roles they will take on the show.

There’s Ric, who strikes Bernie as someone who’s used to leading, she has no trouble imagining him in a boxing ring, controlling not only his actions but those of his opponent. Sacha, who is already distinguishing himself as a sweet, kind man. Essie, is bright, lively, and sweet. Mo’s hilarious, gregarious. Morven, for all that she’s the youngest one there, holds her own very well indeed, Bernie’s excited to see how she fares in the tent. Zosia’s a little quieter, a little more serious perhaps, though she laughs as much as anyone as jokes fly around the table. Henrik is the quietest of them all, a little stern Bernie thinks at first, an opinion she revisits through the night. Not stern, she decides eventually. Reserved, yes, but affable all the same. Jac’s wit is as sharp as her cheekbones. She’s gorgeous, that’s undeniable, and she holds herself with a quiet confidence that Bernie has to admire. She said she was an executive and Bernie can easily imagine her going toe to toe with men twice her size in the boardroom. Raf is clever and very sweet, his story about how he met his husband is absolutely adorable. Bernie feels oddly comforted, having him and Dom there. She thinks wryly that this is probably the gayest season Bake Off’s ever had. Then there’s Serena. The woman from the cafe. She’s beautiful, brilliant. Bernie is amazed at how magnetic her personality is, how she pulls everyone in as she speaks and makes it look effortless. Bernie can’t help wanting to know her better. Is sure everyone else at the table feels the same. And of course there’s Dom. Ever the incorrigible rascal, she’s very very glad to have him here at her side.

She doesn’t mean to bring up her service record when she introduces herself, hopes no one will say anything, knows it's a futile hope. In the end, it’s Serena who brings it up. The conversation has dwindled slightly when Serena leans forward and catches her eye.  
“So Bernie,” she says, “you mentioned you were in the RAMC.”   
“Um, yes,” Bernie nods, “That’s right. I was a trauma surgeon in the corps for over twenty years “   
“That’s tough work in even tougher conditions.” She appreciates the way Serena says that, neither congratulatory nor sympathetic, instead simply stating it as fact.   
“It is,” Bernie agrees.   
“Twenty years is a long time, forgive me if I’m overstepping but what made you leave.” Serena’s eyes are warm and Bernie trusts her almost implicitly, doesn’t brush off the question in the same way she usually does.   
“Uh, well, I got a little blown up,” she says instead. She knows she's grimacing at the memory, hopes no one will pry any deeper. “Got flown home for surgery and then ended up staying.”   
Serena looks at her shrewdly all of a sudden, eyes narrowing and Bernie wonders what she said wrong.   
“Bernie… Good lord, you're Berenice Wolfe, aren’t you?” And really that’s too weird. Serena knows her? Knows of her?   
“I… Um, yes.”   
“Wow! Sorry, I just mean... you're a great surgeon. Top five trauma surgeons in the country, easily.”   
“Oh. Er, well yes,” Bernie's never been great at receiving compliments with grace, but Serena’s right, she is.   
“I have a friend who works ED at Birmingham City Hospital. He was assisting in theatre when you pulled that stunt with the atriocaval shunt.”   
“Oh.” That. Of all the places Bernie’s worked as a locum, it’s always that first position, that first surgery that gets brought up. Bernie knows it was a risky call, but she won’t apologise for it, even in retrospect. She did the right thing at the right time and she did it well. She wonders what she should say.   
“He told me all about it,” Serena continues, “the way you recognised the injury and just made the call. He said it was absolutely beautiful work.”   
“Right, well,” that’s better than she was hoping, but Bernie doesn’t know quite how to respond to the admiration in Serena’s tone. She shrugs, “it worked.”   
Bernie's aware that everyone else is watching, listening to this conversation with interest, Bernie can’t help feeling like she’s on display, knows it’s irrational. Plus, if she feels like this in front of this many people how’s she going to feel when half the country is watching her on telly every week? That’s something she’s been trying very hard to ignore: the personal effect this show will have. It’s not something she can afford to worry about during the filming. She’ll have plenty of time to agonise over it later.

“Trauma surgery is something I find quite fascinating,” Serena continues, “especially in my line of work.”

“Right, AAU, you mentioned.”

“Exactly. You would not believe how hard I’ve been begging my CEO for better trauma facilities, better training, but, well, getting money out of the NHS isn’t exactly easy these days.”

“I can imagine not,” she can’t, really. Bernie doesn’t have much experience with budget meetings. “What’s your background, surgically?”

“Vascular surgery,” Serena replies.

“Alright if you two are going to continue to talk shop I’m switching seats,” Dom declares, and Bernie suddenly realises they've been crowding him, both leaning in close to each other as they speak.

“Sorry,” she apologises, looks around to see that everyone has stopped paying any attention to them, moved on to smaller conversations between neighbours. Dom does insist on swapping seats with her, waving off any suggestion that they could move onto more generalised topics, so she ends up sitting beside Serena, still leaned in towards her, their knees brushing under the table.

They continue talking about their respective specialities, delve briefly into surgical techniques in acute care, and then begin swapping their best surgery stories—ranging from the technically challenging to the fascinatingly grotesque. The low hum of conversation surrounds them, and Bernie gets the distinct feeling of being wrapped in a cocoon. Just her and Serena amidst the hubbub of everything going on about them.

“So judging from your comments earlier I’m assuming you’re divorced?” Serena asks her.

“I am, yes,” Bernie says. She didn’t want to talk about it earlier, but one on one with Serena she finds she doesn’t mind as much.

“Tell me your ex-husband’s as much of a bastard as mine so we can toast to their mutual destruction,” Serena drawls, filling her glass of wine as she speaks. She has, Bernie notes, consumed a veritably unholy amount of wine tonight, and seems almost completely unaffected.

“Uh, well,” Bernie bites her lip and looks down at her plate before continuing. He’s not, well, he’s no saint but um, I’m the reason it ended.” She looks up at Serena through her fringe and gives her a tense grimace, “seemed rather rubbish of me to stay with him in light of my, um, latent lesbianism.” She's braced as she says it, ready for a negative response. At the very least she's expecting Serena to pull back, to shift away, to end the little bubble of closeness and warmth they've created. She doesn’t. Instead, Serena leans in and bumps Bernie's shoulder with her own.

“Ah,” she says. “I can see how that might throw a wrench in things.”

“You could say that for sure,” Bernie agrees.

“You didn’t know?” Serena’s tone is somehow imbued with compassion, an eagerness to understand, but devoid of condescension or pity. She makes Bernie feel safe, makes Bernie want to open up and share.

“No. At least, not consciously. And then I fell in love with a woman, one of my colleagues in the RAMC,” she lets the words roll of her tongue without thinking twice about it. “It was all very illicit, you know. Very much against the rules but I couldn’t help myself. I told Marcus we were over the next time I was on leave.”

“I can’t imagine how tough that must have been. To live your whole life… And then suddenly to discover something so fundamental… How very brave of you to just head it face on.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t call myself brave.”

“I would,” Serena lays a warm hand on Bernie’s arm, “I can’t imagine what I would’ve done in the same situation.” She squeezes Bernie’s arm briefly, then pulls her hand back and Bernie almost misses the warmth of it. “What about the woman you fell for? Are you still seeing her?”

“Alex? No. We um, we came forward about it to our superiors before anything really happened. She went to another unit, so we could get permission to continue, uh, what we had. And it became tough, you know? Never seeing each other took its toll. I guess we, um, found out that our relationship was made more of our situation than anything else.” She doesn’t mention Alex's complaints: that Bernie was never open enough, never talked enough, that she felt like she was carrying the emotional burden of the relationship. It was probably true, anyway, but Bernie doesn’t want to bring that up with Serena. Doesn't feel like immediately revealing all of her flaws to a woman who already feels like a friend.

They leave the restaurant at about ten, walk back to the hotel in one big group. They’ve already been told they’ll need to be ready and on the waiting coach at six am the next morning. Most of the group begs off to sleep, but as they near the hotel bar Serena turns to Bernie.

“Care for one last nightcap?” she asks. Bernie thinks she should probably say no, should probably beg off to bed and get a full night’s rest before what promises to be a busy day, but she finds she doesn’t want to. She wants to sit and chat more with Serena.

“Sure,” she says, never one to listen to her better judgement. “Why not?”

They head inside, the bar is dark, filled with quiet murmurs. Serena instructs Bernie to find them seats as she walks off to the bar. She comes over a minute later with two wine glasses full of red wine. Bernie’s sitting on a love seat in the corner, expects Serena to take the armchair opposite, but Serena sits down right beside her, slides a little into her as the soft cushions give way.

“Shiraz,” she says, handing Bernie a glass. “I hope you like it because otherwise we can’t be friends.” Bernie laughs at that, loves the way Serena smiles at her in return. She takes a sip and finds it to be a nice enough wine. Bernie’s never had much opinion on the stuff: she’s happy to drink whatever.

“I, um, I never asked you by the way. You said you were divorced? And your daughter lives with you?”

“Yes. Divorced and single at the moment. My daughter Elinor, she just turned twenty-two and she’s back under my roof and my nephew Jason, he’s twenty-five, and he lives with us as well.”

“Must be nice, having them around,” Bernie hopes desperately that’s the right thing to say.

“It’s, well. It’s...” Serena trails off, takes a sip of her wine, and Bernie waits patiently for her to formulate her thoughts. “Jason is lovely, just an absolutely splendid boy. I didn’t actually know about him, didn’t even know I had a sister until my mother died and I was going through her things. My sister’s passed away now, I never got to meet her, and Jason lives with me. It’s challenging sometimes, he has Asperger’s, so it was a fairly large adjustment when he first moved in.”

“I can imagine.”

“But we’ve figured it out now, mostly, I’ve learned the importance of sticking to a schedule, that’s for sure. Ellie coming into the mix, well, that was a bit harder.”

“How so?” Bernie finds she wants to know as much as possible about Serena, hopes she isn’t pushing her to talk about things she doesn’t want to discuss.

“Well, she got herself in a spot of trouble last year,” Serena takes a gulp of wine before she continues. “Drugs. Massively in debt to pay for the drugs. And I found out one night when she called me, high out her mind, and not in a pleasant way, and asked me to go collect her. She’s been to rehab now and, well, we’re making it work. She’s, I mean, she’s making it work. She’s really matured through all this.” Bernie can hear the struggle in Serena’s tone, the indulgence of a mother and the disapproval of an authority figure all in one. “But it hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure. I had to step down as deputy CEO, juggling everything just came to be too much, and well as I’m sure you know in hospital politics once you slide down it’s three times as hard to get back up again.”

“Mmm,” Bernie doesn’t know, actually. Bernie’s singular goal with hospital politics is and always has been to stay as far away from them as possible. “You’ve had a busy year.”

“You’re not wrong on that one,” Serena agrees with a little laugh.

“It’s nice,” Bernie looks down at her glass as she talks, looks at the way her fingers are curled around the delicate stem. “I mean, it’s good for you to be doing this then. You deserve a break, I mean, you deserve to get to do something just for you and hopefully this is that.”

Serena nods, looks over at her and gives her a warm smile.

“That’s very true.” She takes a deep breath, pats Bernie’s knee warmly. “Thank you.”

They stay and chat until it’s almost midnight, until Bernie is barely able to stifle her yawns, and then they retire for bed

They're standing, waiting for the lift when Bernie finally finds the courage she’s been waiting for all evening.

“I have to apologise to you,” she says, wringing her hands.

“Oh?”

“Um, yes. I think I almost ran you over the morning of the first audition, so, well, sorry about that.”

“So that  _was_ you,” Serena says and her tone is inscrutable. What does that mean? Has she noticed Bernie? Thought about Bernie?

“Yeah. I didn’t crush your bakes did I? I worried about that.”

“No, no! Not at all.”

“Good.” Bernie gives Serena a shy little smile as the lift pings its arrival.

They ride up to their floor in silence, walk to their rooms, only a couple of doors apart. Bernie’s unlocking hers when she hears Serena speak.

“Good luck tomorrow Bernie,” she says.

“Thanks,” Bernie replies, whips around to give her a smile. “Uh, you too.”


	5. Cake Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically in my time zone it's still Monday...  
> Cake Week is upon us! Enjoy :)  
> (oh and check me out on tumblr (@magnass) if you wanna see a pic of Serena's bundt cake from this week, which is actually a recipe I devised)

Five-thirty the next morning comes all too soon. Bernie rolls out of bed, digs through her suitcase and pulls out the outfit Charlotte had helped her decide on. It’s plain, basic. Black skinny jeans and black high-tops and a dark turquoise v-neck t-shirt. She had originally assumed she should dress up, maybe even wear a dress or something, Charlotte quickly talked her out of that idea.

“Don’t be ridiculous mum,” she said, and Bernie could practically hear the eyeroll through the phone. “You’ll be completely uncomfortable and people will be able to see it. You need to be able to move.” Bernie conceded that her daughter had a point and packed accordingly.

Now, as she pulls on the clothes and makes her way downstairs she’s grateful for the astute advice. The last thing she'd want to be doing right now is fiddling with tricky little buttons or trying to put on hose. She forgoes the breakfast buffet at the hotel—she doesn't think she could eat with the nervous knot in the pit of her stomach, and anyway she barely has any time to spare—and heads outside to the waiting coach. She climbs aboard, claims a seat, and looks out the window at the morning sun peeking through buildings onto Bath’s quiet streets. Dom flops onto the seat beside her a minute later and gives her a nod, she offers him a brief smile in return, gets the feeling that neither of them is as yet awake enough for small talk. It’s only about a fifteen minute drive from their hotel to the grounds of Prior Park where Bake Off will be filmed this year, just long enough for Bernie to almost doze off against the window. She jerks awake as the coach pulls up to a sizeable grouping of trailers, knows Dom noticed her little snooze by the teasing quirk of his lips. Her attention quickly shifts, as does his, drawn by the sight ahead of them: the Bake Off tent. The group files out of the coach, and then all twelve of them stand still for a minute, awestruck by the realisation that yes, they are really here. They’re pulled out of their reverie by a clipboard-wielding producer, ushered into the cluster of trailers and onwards with their day.

As early as it is, the grounds are already buzzing with activity. There’s an incredible number of people rushing from point to point: Bernie realises she’s never really thought of the scale of a show like this before. On a couple of tables amidst the trailers, someone has set out some food and, more importantly, coffee and Bernie grabs a cup as soon as she’s able. It’s a little chilly out, the dewy kind of chilly that happens before the sun’s high in the sky on a hot summer day.

She catches Serena’s eyes across the group, gives her a little smile of hello over the rim of her coffee cup. Serena smiles warmly in return.

From there they’re directed through to hair and makeup. Bernie’s relieved that the makeup artist takes the time to ask what kind of makeup she wears normally, keeps her looking much as she normally does, focuses more on foundation and powder for the sake of the cameras and lights. Her hair, after a brief consultation, is gathered into a simple ponytail, her fringe allowed to stay exactly where it is (though the hair stylist threatens her with scissors if it gets any longer).

“We do want people to be able to see your eyes,” she tells Bernie seriously and Bernie promises to trim the ends before next week, wonders how horrified this woman would be if she knew Bernie does it herself, leaning over the rubbish bin, with her kitchen scissors.

After they’ve all been made to look presentable, they’re grouped together once more. Mel and Sue and Paul and Mary come by and say hello to everyone, shake their hands and welcome them to the show. It’s a little surreal, if Bernie’s honest. Shaking Mary Berry’s hand with the white peaks of the Bake Off tent in the background. As Mel and Sue joke around and Paul manages to make a simple hello vaguely ominous, the reality of her situation truly hits home.

Suddenly that knot in her stomach becomes a wave of anxiety that washes through her body, fierce and undeniable and Bernie has to breathe deeply to ground herself and move past it. A little bit of nervousness is manageable, expected, and even in parts beneficial—if used as a driving force. Any more than that bit will simply need to be ignored.

After they’ve all been introduced, and everyone’s appearances have gotten a stamp of approval, the filming begins. It’s a lot more stopping and starting than Bernie had anticipated. First they head down to the bottom of the large hill and film the contestants walking single file through the beautiful Palladian bridge. The first time through is exciting, the fifth time trudging along the same path is considerably less so. Then they move back to where the tent’s been set up: the producers want to get shots of all of them heading through the opening of the tent, stepping up to their stations, and pulling on their aprons. They do that three times as camera crews move all about them getting as many angles as possible. Then it’s back out onto the grounds to stand about as Mel and Sue film their introduction. It’s hard not to giggle at their antics, hard to stay still and wait for the shot to be done. After that, they break them up and do quick interviews.

“It’s very exciting,” Bernie tells the camera. “I mean, you do all this preparation for it but it doesn’t really sink in until you get here, until you see the tent and realise that it’s actually happening.”

“Are you nervous?” they ask.

“A bit, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I think mostly it’s a feeling of ‘wow they chose me’ and really wanting to prove that that was the right choice.”

After they’ve gotten the appropriate sound bites from all of them, it’s back into the tent once more. This time, to actually begin baking. Sort of. Before the cameras start rolling, Faenia and her team of home economists go over everything with each individual baker. This is how the oven and the machines work, here’s all the ingredients each of them asked for, etc etc. And every one of the bakers gets an hour practice run through, going through the steps of their bakes and ensuring they know what they're doing. It's obviously necessary, for everyone to have the same preparation, but only so many of them can do their practice run through at once and the wait is tedious. After they’re all done, they’re introduced to the team of producers that will be stationed about the tent.

“These are the people you hail when you’re about to take something in or out of the oven,” Anna tells them. “They’ll ensure you're being filmed and that the camera’s in the right place for the best possible shot. Don’t go ahead until they’ve given you the okay. And, to that end, try to call them over a minute or two before you need to move things around so you can pull your bake out when you want to.”

“If you have any issues: need ingredients, have technical difficulties, anything like that,” Faenia says. “My team are the people to call over. If you run out of something we can always get more. The most important part is that you tell us as soon as humanly possible so we can get it to you in time.”

When everyone’s ready they’re given one more go of the governing instructions. Stick to your planned bakes as best as you can, speak up if you need anything, and make sure that nothing goes in or out of an oven without a camera filming it. Everyone nods their understanding. Silence fills the tent as Paul, Mary, Mel, and Sue walk in. And then cake week officially begins.

“Welcome bakers,” Sue starts, “to the tent of treats and terror, and to your very first signature challenge. This is your chance to wow the judges with one of your tried and tested recipes.”

“We would love,” Mel speaks up, “for you to bake a bundt cake. It can be any kind of sponge and can be decorated as you please. But it should look inviting. We are looking for a moist, well flavoured cake, with a perfect, even bake. The operative word, of course, being  _moist._ ”

“Sorry Mel,” Sue says, turning towards her. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“That would be moist,” Mel repeats again. “Moist.” She pauses, grins. “Bakers you will have two hours to make the perfect bundt.”

“On your mark,” says Sue.

“Get set,” adds Mel.

“Bake!” Sue exclaims, her voice traveling upwards through half an octave in exuberance.

* * *

Sue’s cry of ‘bake’, Serena moves into action. First she preheats her oven, then starts her mix. She twists a bowl into place on the stand mixer and fits the paddle attachment onto the head. She reaches over for butter, weighs out 230 grams, and puts it in the bowl, lowers the head of the mixer and turns it on. The familiar sound starts up and Serena watches as the butter gets creamed until it’s fluffy. She adds the caster sugar, measures out her dry ingredients and sifts them into a clean large bowl while she’s waiting for that to be ready.

As she’s adding the eggs one by one to her butter and sugar mixture, Mary, Paul, and Mel come up to her station.

“Hullo Serena,” Paul greets her.

“Hi.”

“So tell us, what will you be making for us today?” he asks.

“I will be making what I call my Old Fashioned bundt cake. So it’s based on the flavours of the cocktail—orange and bourbon and a bit of cherry—and drizzled with an angostura bitters glaze.”

“That’s quite an odd flavour to get in there, the bitters,” Paul’s tone is doubtful, but Serena had been expecting that: she hadn’t been convinced it would work herself when she first tried it.

“It is, yes. If you try the glaze alone it’s really quite odd but with everything else in there it just works.”

“We look forward to trying it,” Mary says, and they move on to the next person. There’s a camera next to her, and a producer encourages her to talk about her method while she works.

“The challenge,” Serena explains as she adds the orange juice and bourbon to her sponge mix, “is getting enough of the alcohol flavour in there to keep Mary happy, while at the same time not making it so strong Paul finds it overwhelming. I think I’ve got it right at the sweet spot,” she laughs a little, “but I guess we’ll see won’t we?”

She adds the rest of her flavours: vanilla, orange zest, and the syrup of maraschino cherries, and mixes them in. Then she adds the flour mixture in three additions, alternated with additions of buttermilk. She hand mixes for that, folding in the flour carefully; the last thing she wants to do is overmix it.

When it’s ready she carefully greases and flours her tin. She considered bringing one of the really fancy ones with all the delicate little points and flutes, but she did all of her practicing with her plain jane ridged bundt pan so that’s what she’s sticking with. She pours the batter into the pan, taps the pan against the counter to remove any errant air bubbles, and gets the attention of one of the producers closest to her. He brings a camera operator with him, and they lean in close, filming carefully as she opens the oven and sticks the pan inside, sets her little timer, and lets out a sigh of relief.

One thing done at least.

As her cake bakes, Serena puts together her glaze, whisks together icing sugar, orange extract, bitters, and a little water. Once that’s done, there’s the waiting.

Serena immediately understands why all the contestants on the show invariably end up on their knees in front of their ovens. The waiting is awful. It’s nice to have a break from the action, true, but sitting on a stool having a cuppa is a lot more stressful when you know your fate is being decided by the machinations of an oven and a pan full of ingredients.

She looks around to the other contestants and they share some nervous smiles. She spies Bernie, all the way in the far corner, she looks as cool as a cucumber amidst it all, is leaned up against her bench talking quietly to Morven.

“Hang out the bundt-ing bakers!” Sue calls then, “we’re halfway through. That’s one hour left bakers. One hour left.”

It’s very odd, how it goes. A long stretch of quiet tension, followed by a flurry of activity as one by one timers go off and bakers start pulling things from their ovens. Serena slips on oven mitts, pulls out the pan and places it on her bench. She sticks a long wooden skewer into the centre of the cake. It comes out clean with just two little crumbs clinging to it: perfect.

She leaves it for five minutes before turning it out onto a cooling rack. It slides out of the pan perfectly and it looks good, thankfully. The top is a beautifully uniform shiny brown, nothing to complain about there. Then it’s a matter of standing there with a cookie sheet, wafting air over the top of the cake, hoping to get it to cool as best as possible before she glazes it.

“No ifs, ands, or bundts about it,” Sue calls out. “There’s five minutes left in the challenge. Five more minutes.”

Serena grabs her bowl of glaze, spoons it out in fairly liberal stripes all along the top of the cake. She slides the cake onto the platter she has ready and sets the cake at the edge of the bench just as Mel announces that the challenge is over.

Serena is first to be judged on the signature, she has yet to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, and she tries not to fidget as Mary and Paul, with Sue in tow, come up to her bench. At the very least the agony of anticipation will be over quickly. She watches carefully as Paul cuts a piece, lays it on a plate.

“Good crumb,” he says right away. “And there’s a good colour to it, looks like it’s baked well.”

Both he and Mary take forkfuls, Serena waits for the verdict as they chew.

“I think you and I are going to get along very well,” Mary says looking up at her with a smile. “Always nice to have a bit of tipple in a cake to my mind, and this is just scrummy.”

“Oh good!” Serena can’t help exclaiming in joy.

Paul is still quiet, Serena waits on tenterhooks as he takes another bite, chews slowly, and looks at her seriously.

“That’s spot on,” he says finally and Serena wants to shout her relief. “I didn’t expect to like it, I’ll be honest. I’m not a huge fan of bourbon, especially in a cake, but the flavours… they work really well. And the glaze, I think it would be an odd flavour on its own, but together with everything else, it really just serves to tie it all together. Well done.”

“Thank you,” Serena says with a grin she can’t suppress.

“I’ll just take a bit more of that,” Sue says from the side, cutting herself a hefty wedge and immediately shoving it into her mouth as Paul prods her to get moving.

With the stress of the first challenge behind her, and a good result under her belt, Serena’s able to relax and watch as the judges move about to everyone else. Henrik’s spiced parsnip bundt cake—a take on the apparently classic Palsternackskaka—is baked well but lacking in flavour. Jac’s cinnamon swirl bundt cake is both beautiful and well-received. Morven’s caramel apple bundt cake is under baked, just a bit, but Paul and Mary both agree the flavour’s spot on. Dom’s thyme and lemon bundt cake divides the judges: Mary likes it but Paul doesn’t. Raf’s vanilla bundt cake is simple but delicious and beautifully baked. Mo’s coffee cardamom cake with a vanilla glaze is a little dry, but otherwise good. Sacha’s black forest bundt cake misses the mark—too heavy, underbanked—as does Essie’s red velvet offering with a cream cheese glaze. Ric’s double chocolate zucchini bundt cake is moist and delicious, and Zosia’s raspberry bundt cake with a pistachio glaze is a win on flavour even though the raspberries have all fallen to the bottom of the cake. Last of all comes Bernie and her simple but elegant gingerbread bundt cake with royal icing. Serena’s happy to see Paul and Mary both praise it highly, calling it moist and delicious, delicately spiced, and a very nice bake to boot.

* * *

After they judge the signature, there’s again more hanging around. There’s some shots they need to retake, bits of people mixing or baking or talking about mixing and baking that they didn’t get enough of the first go-round. It’s a lot of hurry up and wait, a lot of trying to be patient as they arrange things to get the bits they need. Then it’s more interviews, one on one with the cameras to talk about their reactions to the judging and how they’re feeling now. Bernie, of course, is ecstatic.

“I’m very pleased,” is what she actually says to the camera when she’s asked. “I did the best I could and it turned out well so,” she shrugs, “it feels nice.”

They take a break for lunch, which feels very well-deserved indeed, and the food they’re served is very good. It includes pieces of everyone’s cakes—as much as could be snuck out before Mel, Sue, and the crew descended on it all like ravenous vultures. They take the chance to taste their own bakes and everyone else’s. Bernie’s personal favourites are Jac’s and Serena’s. She’s never actually had an old fashioned before, but after tasting that cake she thinks she might just have to try one.

It’s a nice enough day that they can eat outside, and Bernie finds herself seated on the grass beside Raf. She wrestles with saying something to him, has wanted to since dinner the night before, but doesn't know if she should. Or how she should say it. Finally she manages to gather together the courage

“Um, when you… I mean, yesterday I got the sense that your husband was the first man that you… I mean, before him...” she trails off desperately, knows she’s making a complete mess of what she wants to say.

“That he was the first man I ever fell for?” Raf nods, “he was.”

“Quite the, uh, revelation,” Bernie offers.

“Yeah,” Raf looks at her shrewdly, “you could say that.”

“For me I felt like…” She squints up at the bright sky and continues. “Well. I couldn't quite believe how something could be simultaneously so completely surprising and so utterly, I don’t know, obvious?” She purses her lips, still doesn’t look his way.

“That’s… Yeah that’s about right. You...”

“A woman I worked with,” Bernie says with a shrug. “Years ago now but when I admitted it everything just fell into place.”

“It made things make sense,” Raf agrees, “there was a reason that my relationships with women never worked out. Something beyond being married to the job or being bad at commitment.” He pauses, “it was different for Fletch, for him I think finding a man attractive made sense, an extension of finding anyone else attractive. The difference, I suppose, between bisexuality and just taking a hell of a long time to figure out you’re gay.”

“Mmmm,” Bernie agrees.

“At dinner you mentioned you were married. To a man?”

“Twenty-one years

“Wow, kids?”

“Two.”

“How did they feel about it all?”

“Not great, at first,” Bernie admits. “We’ve gotten past it though. Yours?”

“Which one?” he laughs. “Theo was too young to know, he’ll grow up not knowing anything different. And Ella’s not much older—calling me by a different name was about as far as the adjustment went for her. Mikey and Evie were a bit tougher. Especially with school, kids these days can get really nasty. It’s amazing the level of homophobia they bring with them from home.”

“Must have been tough for them.”

“It was. Made for a bit of rough going there. Thankfully we’re past that for the most part.”

They continue to chat about their kids, their lives, until they’re called back to the tent to get ready for the technical.

The atmosphere is a little more tense now, the results of the judging having sunk in, and everyone’s on tenterhooks as they wait to hear what the challenge will be.

“Welcome to your first technical challenge,” Mel says. “Constructed today by the ever-lenient Paul Hollywood. Paul, any words of advice for the bakers today?”

“Take your time but don’t go too slowly,” Paul tells them.

“Helpful as usual,” Sue says. “Now both of you, off you trot, and Paul remember to colour  _inside_ the lines this time.” They watch as Mary and Paul leave the tent and then Sue turns back towards the bakers. “Paul would like you all to make baumkuchen.” Sue says that last word with a pronounced German accent. “Your baumkuchen should have distinct layers, each evenly baked, and be well coated in chocolate. You have two and a half hours.”

“On your marks,” Mel begins.

“Get set,” Sue continues.

“Bake.” They say the last word together.

Baumkuchen. Bernie tries to keep herself from grinning a little as she hears the name. She doesn’t want to be overconfident but she does at the very least know what those are. She remembers spending Easter a few years ago in Germany with her kids, she and Charlotte had been equally entranced by the man in the shop window making baumkuchen on a rotating spit. He was kind enough to show them how he did it, with his broken English and Charlotte’s half-remembered German they had fumbled their way to comprehension and Bernie had been able to learn quite a bit about his method. She hopes she remembers enough of it.

She pulls the cloth off the pile of items on her bench and gets to work. There’s the recipe, the ingredients, and a large electrical spit: the cooking method needed to achieve the unique rings of this cake. The instructions are sparse, limited to the amounts of each ingredient needed for the batter and a couple of other very basic directions. That the cake must be made by spreading the batter over the spit, that it must be scored to make five distinct ridges, and that it must then be coated in chocolate.

She works quickly, knows she’ll need as much time as possible to bake the cake, mixes the batter after turning the spit on to heat. Once the batter is smooth and she’s happy with the consistency she starts the spit turning and begins ladling batter over it as it moves.

“So Bernie, do you have any idea what you’re doing here?” Sue asks as she comes up beside her.

“A little,” Bernie admits.

“Really? So you’ve heard of  _baumkuchen_ before?”

“Yes, well, not an expert by any means but I have seen it being made.” Bernie continues to work as she speaks, lightly spreading the batter over as the spit turns, making sure to let each layer brown slightly before adding more. “Which I think does help.”

“I would say so,” Sue agrees. “Now you’re a trauma surgeon by trade. Former RAMC. Do you think that gives you an advantage here, in terms of handling the stress?”

“Um, probably.”

“You are quite calm,” Sue notes.

“I guess Paul isn’t quite as scary as an active war zone,” Bernie offers with a shrug.

“Fair. Yeah. That’s completely fair.”

The cake has grown quite a bit so now after Bernie adds more batter she also holds her tool—she’s using a wooden spoon handle for the job—up against the spit to make lines in the cake as it turns.

“What are you doing there?” Sue asks.

“Oh, well, traditional baumkuchen has ridges in it. The professionals who make this all the time have long tools with metal teeth on them to score the cake and get the shape, I’m just using this spoon to the same effect. Paul’s looking for five ridges so I’m just,” she counts in her head to make sure she’s done enough, “yeah. Just indenting the batter as I add it to get the right look.”

Sue takes her leave, moves on to chat with the other bakers, and Bernie concentrates carefully on the task at hand. She adds more and more batter and takes care to make the ridges in the ever-growing cake even and straight.

She hears Sue announce from the front of the tent that they’ve got 30 minutes left. It’s really not a lot, doesn’t feel like a lot. She still needs to melt her chocolate, get it up to the right heat so it’s ready to coat her baumkuchen. She steps away from the spit to quickly start a bain-marie and at least get a start on that. She’s close to running out of batter anyway, figures that’s how she’ll judge the end of the bake: by when all of her batter is gone. Once it is she lets the cake rotate a few more times just till it’s a lovely golden brown colour. Then she turns off the heating element. At first she thinks she’ll take the cake off the spit immediately, then she realises it’ll be much quicker and neater to coat it in chocolate while it’s still on the spit. She heats up her melted chocolate to 31 degrees, then removes it from the heat and coats her baumkuchen in it as nicely and neatly as possible. Once that’s done and the chocolate has set just a bit, she pulls the spit upright as quickly as possible, slides the cake off and sets it on a cooling rack to wait for the chocolate to cool down the rest of the way. It doesn’t look too bad, all in all, she thinks as she looks it over with a critical eye. The chocolate work could be neater, probably. She only hopes that when the judges slice into it they get those perfect layered rings she knows they want.

Moments later the challenge is over. As requested they bring forth their bakes and place them on the ‘gingham altar’, behind the photos of their faces—turned so that Paul and Mary can’t see whose cake is whose, as this challenge is always judged blind. Bernie has a chance to look over everyone else’s attempts now. She tries not to be too smug but she does think hers looks one of the best there. Some have no attempt at the ridges whatsoever, a couple are still dripping warm chocolate as they're placed down. Still, she knows that had she not had the good fortune of knowing personally how baumkuchen is made, hers easily could’ve been the worst of the lot.

They all have a seat on the line of stools, as Faenia and her team clear away all the dirty dishes and utensils from the workstations and bring them to the back of the tent. The bakers wait eagerly for Paul and Mary to return, tensing up as they walk back in and survey the bakes.

“Well Mary, shall we start here?” Paul asks, gesturing to his right. Bernie wonders why he always says that, every time, she's never seen an episode of Bake Off where they start on the other side. They critique some bakes for being a right mess, some for not letting the rings cook enough before they added more batter and thus not getting the classic tree ring effect. Some are overdone and dry, one is falling to pieces as soon as Paul touches it with the knife.

Others get praise. Bernie is happy to hear that her baumkuchen has good layers, a nice thickness of the chocolate coating, if a tad messy, and that it tastes good. Once the judges have gone over each cake, the contestants have to sit there, sharing nervous glances, as Paul and Mary discuss the results in low tones they can’t quite make out.

“Okay,” Mary says after they’re all on the edges of their seats with nerves, “in twelfth place is this one.” She comes to stand by Essie’s cake, gestures down at it. “The batter was too thick and didn’t cook enough before more was added so the layers disappeared, and the cake isn’t ridged like it’s supposed to be.”

“In eleventh place,” Paul says stepping up to the table, “is this one.” Henrik raises his hand to identify it as his. “This one had very few layers as well, and the ridges were barely there.”

Raf is tenth, Zosia ninth, Morven eighth, Dom seventh. Sacha sixth, Ric fifth, and Mo fourth.

That brings them to the top three and Bernie can’t help the thrill at not having been called yet. She thought she did okay, middle of the pack, she didn't expect to actually be one of the best. Third place goes to Jac, second to Serena (Bernie smiles over at her, resists the urge to shoot her a thumbs up), and then Bernie realises she's the only name left.

“And that of course,” Paul says, “leaves us with this one.” He pauses as everyone claps, then continues. “Very good layers, nice shape to it, the ridges are even and straight, good coating of chocolate on the outside. This is as close to the classic baumkuchen as we could expect to see. Congratulations Bernie.”

Bernie smiles, a little embarrassed at the praise, but happy to hear her efforts have served her well. After the challenge, it's outside once more for more interviews, getting a read on how everyone feels after the results of the technical. When Bernie looks at her watch she's amazed to see that it's almost six o clock. The day has just flown by! They're all tired, sharing sympathetic murmurs of exhaustion. None of them expected baking to be quite this rigorous. It’s not over yet, though, and there are ever more takes needed. It’s nearing on ten by the time they wearily file onboard the coach and head back to Bath.

Once back, some of them say they're headed right to bed. Sacha, Ric, and Hanssen are all too exhausted to come out for dinner. Everyone else agrees to take fifteen minutes to change and then meet back down in the lobby to go out and forage for something to eat. They head out down the road in a group, doing their best not to talk about the events of the day. They’ve all been warned repeatedly to be careful about what they say when out in public: when it comes to the show keeping things secret is key.

So when they do talk about it it’s vaguely referential, no specifics whatsoever, and it makes it hard enough that they find it easier to talk about other things instead. They find a donair shop, crowd inside and order food, pushing a couple of tables together to accommodate all of them. Bernie finds herself pressed up against Serena again, wants to say something clever like ‘fancy seeing you here’ but doesn’t know how it will come across, will it be too familiar? Or even worse, will it sound flirtatious? She chooses to say nothing instead. It’s safer, anyway. She just gives Serena a quick tight-lipped smile and then tucks into her wrap.

They’re all tired, and they commiserate over how unexpectedly draining the day was. They also all know that tomorrow someone’s going home, and Bernie finds herself legitimately sad about that. She hopes she’ll make it through, of course, she’s done fairly well so far (though her performance tomorrow will make all the difference), but she’s surprisingly emotional about the thought of losing one of their group. They’ve bonded so quickly, become a unit, it will be tough to say goodbye.

They don’t stay out much later, most of them look about ready to fall asleep where they sit, and when Bernie gets to her room, she can barely muster the energy to shuck off her clothes and crawl into bed. She’s asleep the moment her head hits the pillow.

* * *

Serena dreams of the tent. She wakes up as her alarm goes off, her heart pounding, the images of her dream—her dacquoise toppling to the ground, meringue and buttercream splattering wide and far—still stark in her mind. She does her best to clear the images from her mind as she showers, knows that she needs to be on her best form in the tent.

Once they get to Prior Park, the morning goes just as slowly as the day before. It’s all makeup and hair and minutiae, the busywork of getting the right shots and sound bites before the actual baking can start. It’s quite a wet day, the rain starts pouring down at around seven and doesn’t let up much at all. Not the best conditions for a dacquoise, that’s for sure.

“Morning Bakers,” Mel says when they’re ready to begin, “welcome to your first showstopper day. Today Mary and Paul would like you to make a dacquoise.”

“It should have at least eight layers of meringue,” Sue hops in, “and can be filled with anything you’d like, in any flavour you would like. The meringue should be crisp, the flavours delicious, and the whole thing just a right treat to look at. You have four hours so…”

“On your marks,” says Mel.

“Get set,” says Sue.

“Bake,” they say in unison. And everyone immediately gets to work.

Serena preheats her oven first, then gets her nuts ready to be toasted, pulsing them in a food processor until they’re coarsely ground. She spreads them out on a roasting pan, slides them into the oven as soon as it’s heated, making sure to call someone over before she opens the oven door. As the nuts roast, she starts separating her eggs, then beats the egg whites with a pinch of sugar until they’re white and opaque. This is the careful balancing act of working with meringue: needing to beat the egg whites enough, to where they’ll hold their shape, but not over beating them.

“If the egg whites are beaten too much,” she explains to a nearby camera, “the matrix of proteins starts to break down and the foam will collapse. They’ll become grainy, watery, and lose their height. And there’s no saving them at that point.”

She adds caster sugar, beats the egg whites to stiff peaks, and adds some vanilla and pistachio extracts. She’s pulling her nuts out of the oven when Mary, Paul, and Sue come up to her to talk to her about her cake. She explains to them her pistachio dacquoise with raspberry buttercream, fresh raspberries, and white chocolate ganache. They ask her a couple questions about flavours and techniques, thank her, and let her get back to work. She gently folds the nuts, sugar, and corn-starch into the egg whites, careful to keep the air that’s been whipped into the meringue as she does so. She has pieces of parchment paper with carefully drawn circles in pencil so she can pipe her meringues in perfect circles, all the same size. She can’t bake all the meringues at once: they won’t fit in the oven. So she’s cooking three at once twice, and then the last two. It’s the most challenging part of this challenge: the time management. The meringues need an hour or so in the oven so she needs to get them in, baked, and cooling as soon and as smoothly as possible. Once she has the first batch in the oven she pipes the rest out and then starts on her buttercream. She purees the raspberries, about one and a half cups of them, then sieves them. It’s personal preference, to remove the seeds or not, but she has the feeling she’ll catch flak from the judges if she doesn’t.

The raspberry buttercream she uses for this recipe is a swiss meringue buttercream, so she starts by placing yet more egg whites, sugar, and some salt in a bowl over a pan of simmering water. It’s a little tricky to whip them vigorously while explaining to the camera what she’s doing, and she finds herself out of breath quickly. Maybe she needs to increase her cardiovascular endurance? Though if all her baking in preparation for this competition hasn’t managed that, it’s unlikely to happen. Not like she’s about to go get herself a gym membership any time soon. Once the sugar is dissolved she takes the egg whites off the heat and whips them further, until the mixture has cooled somewhat and nicely thickened. Then it’s ready for the last few additions. She beats in the butter first, then the raspberry puree, beats it just to the point that it’s incorporated and smooth. She drags her finger through the frosting when it’s done and licks it clean. Absolutely perfect.

Her timer goes off so she checks on her first batch of meringues. They’re looking good. She pulls them out, puts three more into the oven and sets her timer once more. She whips up a quick white chocolate ganache and then finds that she doesn’t have much to do for a while but wait.

Waiting, especially during a big challenge like this, feels very odd.

She has a seat on her stool, someone brings her a mugful of tea and she sips on it while watching everyone else. Some are still hard at work, others are taking a break much the same as she. She wonders what kinds of dacquoises the others are making.

She smiles at Henrik, who’s drinking from a water bottle at the station behind her.

“Going well?” She asks.

“As far as I know,” he replies. “You?”

“Much the same I guess,” Serena says with a laugh. “Never really know till the end, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“All hands on deck-quoise,” Mel calls out then. “We’re halfway through the challenge. That’s two hours left, bakers. Two hours.”

Serena resists the impulse to sit in front of her oven and watch her bakes for, well, for not nearly as long as she thought she’d be able to. She was hoping to make it through the first week, at least, before ending up crouched in front of her oven, timer in hand, trying not to obsess. Alas not. She worriedly peers through her oven door and wishes for the meringues to bake faster. When she gets that batch of meringues out of the oven, they’re baked beautifully as well, all she needs now is to get the last two baked and as long as nothing goes too awry she should be okay till the next week.

Though okay isn’t really enough; she so desperately wants this cake to wow. She’s been working on this recipe for years (it had been a favourite of Ellie’s growing up) and she hopes it translates well here. When the last two meringues only have about 15 minutes left on their bake, she starts to assemble the cake. It’s delicate work—meringue, if baked well, is brittle. She puts down the first layer of meringue, covers it in the raspberry frosting, then she places down a layer of fresh raspberries; the bottom of the next layer of meringue gets a light coating of the white chocolate ganache—not too much mind—and then is placed on top. And then the process is repeated all over again. And again. And again. To a whopping total of eight layers. If all goes according to plan, the buttercream and the ganache will protect the meringue from the liquid of the fresh raspberries leaching into them, which could make the meringue soft and chewy. She can see Paul walking past out of the corner of her eye, he pauses to watch what she’s doing. She looks back at the work in front of her, does her best to ignore him and his piercing gaze: she doesn’t have the time or the mental energy to worry about whatever it is that’s caught his eye.

Sue announces thirty minutes left in the challenge just before Serena pulls her last two meringues out of the oven. She leaves them to cool as she continues working on assembly. It’s getting close to the wire, by the time her last meringues are cool enough to be stacked on top. After she puts the last layer of meringue on the top, she coats the top in the ganache, covers the sides of the cake in the buttercream and then presses extra roasted pistachios into the side. It’s one of her favourite things, the look of the cake when it’s done, the sides light pink and pale green, the top white and glossy.

“Bakers, you’ve got one minute left,” Mel announces.

Serena hurriedly pipes little rosettes of buttercream around the perimeter of the top of the cake and places a fresh raspberry on top of each. And then, just like that, their first showstopper challenge is over. Serena shares a grin with Henrik, sees Dom and Zosia high five on the other side of the room, can feel the collective sigh of relief go up from the tent.

There’s a fairly sizeable break between that and the judging. The camera crews need to get multiple shots of everyone’s completed bakes before they’re sliced into, and they use the time to get some extra takes of people mixing or piping or whatever else they might have been doing at the same time.

Dom’s up first. His toasted almond dacquoise with chocolate buttercream is praised on taste and presentation. He’s done all around the sides in beautiful buttercream roses and Serena things it looks enchanting. However Mary takes issue with texture of the meringues—too soft. Paul agrees, thinks they’re slightly under baked. Next is Mo’s banoffee dacquoise. She describes it aloud: layers of pecan meringue with banana cream frosting and toffee sauce. The top looks like a banoffee pie: covered in a layer of whipped cream, pieces of banana, and drizzled with toffee sauce. Paul and Mary like it, with reservations. While they agree it was well done, neither of them thinks that the flavours really work for a dacquoise. Serena is looking forward to trying it later, she can’t decide if she thinks it’s a good idea or not but it certainly looks impressive. Serena is third to be judged. She walks up with her bake (she brought one of her favourite platters from home for the occasion) and thinks ‘don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip’ as she walks.

She places the bake down on the table and explains it clearly, holds her breath as Paul cuts a piece. He praises the crisp layers of meringue as he cuts through. Mary says she likes the surprise of the fresh raspberries between every layer. They tap at each part of it, pulling a bit with their forks before they each take a bite. She hates the waiting while they chew, scanning their faces for any hint of their thoughts.

“I love it,” Paul says. “I think it works perfectly. The meringue is crisp, the buttercream is airy, the fresh raspberries add just that bit of tartness, and mixed with the sweetness of the ganache... It’s very good.”

“Delicious,” Mary agrees. “Beautifully baked, beautifully presented, and a perfect balance on the flavours. You should be very proud.”

Serena thanks them sincerely and carries her bake back to her bench. She catches Bernie’s eye as she goes, could swear she sees a split-second wink.

Next up to be judged is Henrik. His almond and hazelnut meringue with strawberry and chocolate buttercream is a bit overbaked, and the judges find the flavours of the frostings don’t quite work. Jac’s caramel pecan dacquoise is praised highly, as is Morven’s peanut dacquoise with a dark chocolate ganache and peanut butter mousse. Sacha’s chestnut meringue with lemon curd and lemon cream is a little clumsy looking, his meringue is soft, and the judges are torn on the flavours. Ric’s walnut dacquoise with vanilla buttercream is great, but the judges do note they find it a little too simple.

Essie’s hazelnut dacquoise with chocolate ganache and orange buttercream has unfortunately slumped to one side. Serena feels pity for her as she walks up with her collapsed cake. Paul and Mary like the flavour, but it’s under baked and the buttercream was put on while some of the layers of meringue were still too warm: hence the slump. Bernie’s mocha dacquoise has layers of chocolate hazelnut meringue, coffee buttercream, and chocolate ganache. As Paul cuts into it he mentions what is obviously a reference to a previous conversation: that with the cocoa powder in the meringue layers it makes it much harder to know when the meringue is done. But Bernie is vindicated: the meringue is perfectly baked. It’s a gorgeous cake, with meticulous layers at perfectly even thickness and according to the judges it tastes amazing too. Zosia’s ‘coconutty’ dacquoise has an almond macadamia nut meringue with chocolate coconut buttercream. Paul likes the flavours, despite the coconut flavour, but Mary points out that macadamia nut is not a great option for a dacquoise, and it has made for a soft meringue. Finally Raf’s up with his classic hazelnut dacquoise with chocolate buttercream. Though the judges think that it’s lacking a bit on presentation, the taste is deemed wonderful.

Next they get interviewed about their thoughts from the judging and do a bit more spot filming just in case there’s any more shots needed. Serena immediately understands why they have to dress the same on both days—what is seen on tv isn’t necessarily exactly what was happening at a given moment. There’s so much chaos in the tent that it’s after the challenge is over that they get many of their good clips of the bakers, and some of those clips must be interchangeable from day to day.

Once that’s all taken care of, the bakers get a quick break. They have a cuppa and try a bit of their showstoppers, telling each other what they like about each of their bakes. The crew people make incredibly quick work of whatever’s remaining. Serena’s honestly surprised at how quickly it’s all gone. Dacquoise is a rich, heavy dessert, it’s a fair challenge to eat more than one piece in a single sitting. But these people are like cake eating experts. Serena’s even noticed that a lot of them carry forks in their back pockets, so they’re ready to descend on any available goodies at any time.

Their break lasts for the length of time it takes Paul and Mary to make a decision. When they’re ready, someone comes and lets the bakers know and they go back into the tent. The stools are set up in a horizontal line and they all sit down where they’re bid for the judging. Serena gets sat between Morven and Bernie and she shares a nervous smile with each of them as Mel, Sue, Mary, and Paul walk in.

“First of all,” Mel starts, “well done bakers, all of you. You’ve all worked incredibly hard over the past two days. Now, I get the nice job this week, I get to announce who is going to be the first Star Baker of the Great British Bake Off 2017. This person makes a bundt cake to be reckoned with, a baumkuchen worth writing home about, and is the proud creator of one of the tallest, most beautiful dacquoises we’ve ever seen. Star Baker this week goes to Serena.”

Serena can’t honestly believe her ears. It takes her a second to actually process the words. She’s Star Baker? Her? All the other contestants applaud and she can’t help but smile wide as the news sinks in. Bernie leans toward her, bumps her shoulder against Serena’s.

“Good job,” she murmurs.

“Thanks,” Serena replies.

“I’ve got the worse task this week,” Sue says. “I have to announce who will be the first baker to leave this tent. With real sadness, I have to announce that the person who won’t be joining us next week is…” She pauses for effect before continuing, “Essie.” Serena looks over, sees the disappointed but accepting look on Essie’s face. “C’mon,” Sue says, moving towards her, “come into the Mel Sue Sandwich.”

Then they’re all standing and hugging, people are congratulating Serena and commiserating with Essie. Bernie leans in close at one point, whispers into Serena’s ear.

“I knew it was going to be you,” she says.

“Oh come off it,” Serena murmurs back.

“No! I’m serious. You were amazing this week.”

And all Serena can do is smile and thank her and think how nice it is to have found a friend already.

They leave the tent, get interviewed again, Serena’s asked for her reaction to getting Star Baker, filmed as she calls Jason and Elinor to tell them the good news. It’s late evening by the time Serena’s on her way home, and she lets the motion of the train lull her into a light doze as she thinks back happily on her first week in the Great British Bake Off.


	6. Biscuit Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biscuit week!!! Thanks everyone for reading.  
> I just realised that this is already my longest fic and we have so much more to go :)

It’s a busy schedule, juggling Bake Off and her job, Bernie always knew it would be. She’s late to Bath Friday night, gets held up in emergency surgery and doesn’t make it to the hotel until eleven. She doesn’t see any of her fellow contestants in the halls, wonders if they’re still out and about or if they’re all in bed already resting up for the following day. Bernie doesn’t think about it for long, just sets an alarm and lays down on the soft bed, falls asleep still in her t-shirt and trousers, bone-weary.

She wakes on time the next morning, manages to snag a cup of coffee at the hotel before boarding the bus. She sits down in the seat beside Serena, wonders for a second if that’s being presumptuous, if she should’ve just sat on her own, but Serena immediately turns and gives her a welcoming smile.

“Hello stranger,” she greets her. “Didn’t see you last night.”

“I was late getting in,” Bernie explains. “Late leaving, actually. RTC came in near the end of my shift, smart car got hit by a lorry.”

“Good lord, that must’ve been a right mess.”

“Seven hours in theatre but we got a handle on all the internal bleeding and only lost one of the legs, so...” Bernie shrugs.

“Some days that’s as much as you can hope for.” As soon as Serena says that Bernie thinks how nice it is to have someone here who just gets it, who understands without explanation. They sit in companionable silence the rest of the trip.

It’s not quite as time consuming this week, the getting ready that is, but it’s close. Everyone still has to go through hair and makeup and there’s a litany of other small things to take care of before they can start the real work. Still, almost before she knows it Bernie’s standing in the tent again, tying on an apron and steeling herself for the challenge ahead. She’s at the back of the tent this week, with Serena placed at the bench just in front of hers. She rather likes the vantage from here, likes being able to look out and see everyone at their stations.

“Good morning Bakers,” Sue says as she, Mel, Paul, and Mary enter the tent. “Welcome to this week’s signature challenge.”

“Today,” Mel says, “Paul and Mary are looking for you to make 24 biscuit sandwiches. Bourbons, custard creams, jammie dodgers, jam n’ creams, crunch creams... the options are endless.”

“They can be any flavour you like, any design you like,” Sue continues, “but the biscuits must be crisp, the fillings flavourful, and of course they must all be uniform in shape, size, and bake.”

“You have two hours bakers,” Mel adds.

“On your marks,” Sue begins.

“Get set,” Mel says.

“Bake!” Sue crows, and everyone gets to work.

The challenge is no small feat. They need to make 48 identical biscuits, a filling, and assemble all of it in the time allotted. A less than generous time at that. Bernie starts right away with her biscuits, makes sure her oven is on and preheating to the correct temperature before she starts beating together her butter and her sugar. She adds eggs, pumpkin purée, mixes them in until everything’s combined. After that’s done she slowly but surely adds her flour, bicarbonate of soda, custard powder, salt, and spices.

She’s rolling out her dough when Paul, Mary, and Mel come by her bench.

“Morning,” she greets them.

“Good morning Bernie,” Paul says. “What will you be making for us today?”

“I am making pumpkin maple custard creams and they’ll be in the shape of little pill bottles. So the pumpkin and spices are in the biscuit and then the maple flavour comes through in the cream.”

“Pill bottles?” Mary says, “is this your little cutter for them?” She grabs the cookie cutter, turns it over in her hands.

“Yes,” Bernie assents, “that’s it. And I have this too,” she reaches over, grabs the little metal comb sitting off to the side. “It’s for the cap part. You know how the lids have little indentations on them? This makes that effect on the top of all the biscuits.”

“Very clever,” Mary says with an encouraging smile.

“Looking forward to them,” Paul says with a nod and then the group moves on and leaves her to her work.

Bernie has guides on the edges of her rolling pin (well, a couple of red elastic bands she begged off the postman) to ensure that each of the biscuits is rolled out to precisely the same thickness. Once she’s got them all where she wants them she begins to cut out the shapes, lays them on trays, gets her first two trays of the biscuits into the oven as quickly as possible. It’s a juggling act. She needs to get six trays of biscuits cut, baked, and cooled as quickly as possible. She concentrates on rolling and cutting first, has a little thread of thought in the back of her mind reminding her she needs to start on her maple cream filling as soon as possible as well.

At the very least it is freeing to have as many trays as she needs here in the tent. At home she doesn’t have much, has been making do with the bare minimum ever since she started this whole baking thing. She has one cookie sheet, two mixing bowls, one set of measuring cups, and little else. Here, on the other hand, there’s a bevy of every possible tool ready and waiting at her disposal. It’s rather nice. Maybe one day she’ll settle down, buy a house with a real kitchen and fill it with every baking tool imaginable. Unless this competition goes so poorly she swears off baking forever, that is.

Her timer pings, she pulls the first two trays of biscuits out, is pleased with their bake and gets the next two trays in. She’s carefully sliding the biscuits onto cooling racks—she’s fairly certain she’s going to manage to chuck something on the floor sooner or later in this competition—when Sue comes around, poking and prodding at the things on her counter as she and Mel always do.

“Oooh! Those look good!” she exclaims, her hand reaching out towards the cooling biscuits.

“Hands off,” Bernie warns, slapping Sue’s wrist gently, “there aren’t any extras.”

“Too bad, cause they look lovely.” She looks over the cooling rack. “Pill bottles, hm? Can I expect a magical curing of all ails from eating these?”

“I’ll leave any pontification as to supposed health benefits to someone else,” Bernie replies, “I just hope Mary thinks they taste okay,” realises her slip as soon as she says the words.

“Oh?” Sue picks up on it immediately. “Only Mary? No qualms given about the male judge’s opinion then?”

“No, no,” Bernie shakes her head, flutters her fingers in what she hopes is an apologetic gesture. “Sorry. Paul too of course. I just, I’m not really used to expending effort trying to impress men.” It’s out of her mouth before she thinks of it: meant more as a fact of her professional life than a comment on her sexuality. That intention is undeniably lost; as soon as she says it Sue’s laughing and Bernie just grins, ducks her head.

“Don’t worry,” Sue says leaning in with a wink, “me neither.” She saunters off, leaves Bernie to contemplate why she ever opens her mouth, and why she can’t seem to remember her every move in here is being filmed. What a way to come out to the whole country that was; to think she used to agonise about outing herself to a singular person at work.

She can’t afford distraction right now so she concentrates on making her filling instead. Butter, powdered sugar, maple syrup. It’s all much simpler if she concentrated on the bake and keeps her mouth shut on everything else. The filling is always a little fiddly, the challenge of course being in getting the consistency soft enough to be a pleasure to eat but not so soft it all whooshes out of the biscuit on first bite. She gets it to a place she’s happy with, finally, and sets it aside.

Mel announces it’s halfway through the challenge and Bernie pauses, forces herself to be completely calm and to logically consider what she needs to do next before she continues. Baking, cooling, assembly. Simple and straightforward.

She’s just pulled her last tray out of the oven when she overhears Sue talking to Serena at the station in front of her.

“Do you think,” Sue’s saying, “that there’s some competition here between you and Bernie? Two surgeons of about the same age, rather puts you two as natural rivals wouldn’t you say?”

“Rivals? No I wouldn’t say so,” Serena replies. She shoots Sue a wry grin, “but it’s a good thing I’m not leggy and blonde or they’d never be able to tell us apart.” She turns around and quirks an eyebrow at Bernie as soon as she says it and Bernie laughs. She likes the way Serena makes her feel part of the joke rather than the butt of it.

She fills her piping bag, had decided at some point that she would pipe in the filling in little rosettes with a smaller star nozzle to get a lovely wavy design around the edge of the finished sandwich. It’s tough work, her hand starts to cramp a little part way through and she has no choice but to readjust her grip slightly, ignore it, and move on. She also, for some godforsaken reason, had decided to decorate the ‘bottles’ with little labels. Nothing too extreme, just a simple white icing of powdered sugar and water to make a label and then writing ‘Rx’ on each with black gel.

She’s right down to the wire on time on this challenge, had slightly underestimated just how long each biscuit would take, and she’s still piping furiously at the five minute mark. She just barely gets the last biscuit labelled and the whole lot laid out on the wooden slab she brought when Sue calls out that the challenge is finished.

She takes a step back from her work, breathes out a sigh of relief that makes her fringe dance across her brow.

“God, that was close,” Serena says.

“Brutal,” Bernie agrees. “My hand started to cramp up halfway through and I thought I was done for.”

“Yours too? Guess holding a scalpel isn’t quite the same, eh?” She leans over and looks at Bernie’s biscuits, “still, good job you by the look of them.”

“Thanks. Yours look amazing.” She’s not blowing smoke; Serena’s biscuits look incredible. Somehow in the exact same time as Bernie had she’s managed not only to make 24 beautiful little jam filled biscuits, she’s also managed to ice each of them to look like delicate bunches of lilacs. They’re gorgeous. Bernie looks back at her own comparatively amateurish offerings with slight distaste.

Paul and Mary begin their rounds for judging. First is Dom. His are truly fantastic. By splitting his biscuit dough up and colouring each part a different colour, then layering the dough before slicing it into thin pieces and using the biscuit cutter to achieve the shape he wanted, he’s made rainbow coloured pride flag biscuits. It gives Bernie a little moment of pause: how comfortable he is in his identity, how proud he is; it’s amazing. She wonders if she… Perhaps it’s a generational thing. If it is she’d be very happy, if no one had to wrestle with the same fear and shame she’s felt her whole life. The beautiful pride biscuits are filled with raspberry jam and each sandwich has a little heart cut out of the centre to showcase the filling. It’s marvellous, really, and he gets high praise from the judges on both presentation and flavour, even if his biscuits don’t quite snap to Paul’s standard.

Zosia’s caramel and hazelnut filled shortbread squares are a bit plain and a bit too sweet, though they are all beautifully baked and uniform. Neither Paul nor Mary love Henrik’s coconut jammy dodgers filled with bright green lime jelly, they’re okay by Mary and Paul doesn’t like them at all.

Jac impresses with beautiful presentation and the daring choice to go savoury. She offers up goat cheese shortbread biscuits (beautifully crumbly, as per Paul) filled with a roasted red pepper jelly and Bernie thinks those are the ones she’d like to try the most. Morven’s little dulche de leche filled milk bottle biscuits are praised for flavour, but not for the presentation and she willingly admits she ran out of time.

Serena’s biscuits turn out to be lemon flavoured, filled with strawberry elderflower jam. The little icing lavenders are lavender flavoured as well. Paul warns that the three flavours she’s chosen are very difficult to work with, even more so in conjunction with one another, and both he and Mary take their time tasting them before either reveals what they think of them. Bernie can see the tension in Serena’s shoulders as she waits for the verdict and her own hand is clenched in anticipation as well. It’s rather girlish, perhaps, but she wants her new friend to do well. Finally, Paul and Mary put Serena out of her misery and both agree the biscuits are a rousing success. Well-baked, delicately flavoured, interesting, and beautiful. The floral notes elevate the flavour of the lemon and strawberry. Then it’s time for her own judging. Paul and Mary each take a biscuit and Mary looks it over in her hand before she takes a bite, comments on how she likes the presentation: simple, yet effective. They both, thankfully, like the biscuits. Mary likes the flavour combination more than Paul does, but they both agree that the bake and technique is good. Bernie’s pleased with that. Very pleased, in fact.

Mo’s little dark chocolate biscuit triangles are filled with a chocolate chili cream that both judges find to be too spicy. They are also, possibly, just the slightest bit burnt: a hazard of their dark colour being how challenging it is to see when they’re done. Sacha has gone for chocolate biscuits as well, though his are shaped like teddy bears and filled with a peanut butter cream. They are judged to be clumsy in appearance and cloyingly sweet, though they do snap nicely. Ric’s mint chocolate bourbon creams are shaped like dogs and he’s taken the time to ice a little smiling face onto each one. They are well received, as are Raf’s strawberry jam filled sugar cookie hearts, each painstakingly flooded and iced with delicate lace detail. Though for Raf’s Paul comments that he needed to concentrate slightly more on substance (a more interesting flavour, perhaps) rather than spending all of his time on style.

Outside the tent later doing the requisite interviews, Bernie reflects on the fact that it’s rather challenging to tell where you stand after the judging. Obviously, there are a few (both good and bad) who stand out, but for the rest it’s hard to know where you stand other than vaguely in the middle.

* * *

Serena’s happy with how she did in the signature. She’s spent years perfecting that jam recipe and the lavender icing on lemon biscuits is a flavour combination she’s been using since Elinor was little, though she didn’t put all three together until she started planning for this bake. That they worked well and that the judges liked them is a nice boon to her ego. It does not mean she can afford to slack off now.

She walks into the tent for the technical amongst everyone else and can feel the thrum of nervous energy coming from all of them.

Mel and Sue invite Paul and Mary to leave the tent, as this challenge will be judged blind. As it is a Mary recipe, they invite her to offer the bakers some advice before she leaves.

“Read the instructions carefully before you begin,” is all Mary offers before she and Paul leave.

“Today,” Sue says, “Paul and Mary would love you to make Millionaire’s shortbread. They are looking for crumbly shortbread, rich caramel, and glossy chocolate ganache. You have one hour.”

And then Mel and Sue say the classic ‘on your marks, get set, bake’, and they all get to work. Serena starts by scanning over the recipe. It’s about as detailed as it is long. ‘Make the shortbread base’ followed by ‘make the caramel’ and then ‘make the chocolate topping’, ‘decorate with lines of white chocolate, then feather’, and finally, ‘cut into 9 even squares’. Well, at least Serena has a decent idea of what she’s doing. She can’t remember making millionaire’s shortbread before, though it’s entirely possible she has at some point. If she did it was never a favourite and thus never a recipe she pulled out again. Still, she’s eaten it and she does know how to make all the components of the bake which is a pretty decent start. She rubs the butter into the flour as she re-reads the recipe again and again. There’s an oven temperature at the top of the page but absolutely no directions about when to bake it in the instructions. Serena stops and thinks about it, decides it must be for the shortbread base, right off the start. She runs on instinct, lines the tin and then presses in the shortbread in a rough dough. She waffles on whether or not to prick the shortbread base with a fork, decides that she would for shortbread and she’s just doing everything as she would for anything else. At 180, the oven is hot enough that she needs to keep a close eye on the shortbread as it bakes: the last thing she wants is for it to catch.

Watching it as she makes the caramel is a tricky balancing act. Made from butter, muscovado sugar, and condensed milk, the caramel topping is extremely prone to burning. She needs to stir it constantly, ends up picking the pot off the stove and walking the three steps over to the oven with it in her hand, continuously stirring, when she needs to check on the base.

Once the base is golden brown she pulls it from the oven. She lets it rest for about five minutes, knows it should be left for longer but Mel is shouting out that they only have 30 minutes left and she needs to get it, caramel and all, into the fridge to cool as quickly as possible. So she says a little prayer, pours it on, decides to cool it in the freezer instead of the fridge, and starts on the chocolate topping.

She melts the chocolate in a double boiler, watches it carefully, knows Mary is going to want this chocolate to be tempered and shiny when all is said and done. She gets another pan going for the white chocolate, has everything ready to go as she pulls her pan out of the freezer. She prods at it a little, it looks like it has set at the very least and she can’t do much more than hope it’s okay. She pours on the milk chocolate, uses a piping bag to draw parallel lines of the white chocolate, as straight as she can, takes a toothpick and feathers it in opposite directions, gives it a critical once over and decides it’s as pretty as it’s going to get.

Then it’s back into the freezer for five minutes, then into the fridge until the last possible moment. When Sue announces the five minute mark she gives herself two more minutes, then she’s up, pulling the pan from the fridge and carefully removing the shortbread. She cuts them into 9 even squares, as directed, slides them onto the provided plate just as Mel announces that the challenge is over.

She does not feel as though an hour has gone by, in fact she barely feels five minutes have gone by. The other bakes are varied, some look amazing others, not so much. Serena sympathises with everyone in the room: it was a simple bake, but a tough challenge. They all look rather nervous sitting on their line of stools and waiting for judgement. Mary and Paul walk in and Serena could swear she sees a glint of joy in Paul’s eye as he looks at what’s before him. Sadistic bastard, probably enjoys making them all lose their damn minds.

Serena can barely concentrate on what they say about the other baker’s millionaire’s, she’s too busy worrying about how hers have turned out. It appears though that Zosia’s shortbread caught, poor girl, Serena thought she had smelled something burning earlier but had been too wrapped up in her own world to care.

“Now onto this one,” Paul says stepping up to Serena’s platter.

“Good bake on the shortbread,” Mary says.

“Nice presentation too,” Paul says. “The chocolate’s a little soft though, needed a little bit longer in the fridge so it could set.”

‘Then you should’ve given us longer for the challenge’, Serena desperately wants to snap back. Of course she can’t say anything right now. And even if she could, she wouldn’t. It’s the point of this whole thing: to test them under absurdly strenuous conditions and see who has the mettle and knowhow to make it through.  

“Good flavour,” Mary says. Paul agrees, and they move on to the next baker’s efforts.

Zosia comes last in the technical, forsaken by her burnt shortbread. Second last is Sacha. Mo is ninth and Dom is eighth. Ric is seventh, Morven sixth, and Bernie is fifth. Serena does much better than she expects and is altogether pleased with fourth place. Raf gets third, Jac second, and, in a surprise upstart after a disappointing signature, Henrik places first. They all congratulate him warmly, and then it’s off to film some extra takes and their post-technical interviews, before they’re all finally released and sent on the bus back to their accommodations.

Serena ends up seated beside Bernie again, and they go over their individual takes on the day in low voices. Serena shares her newly formed hypothesis that Paul is a sociopath, only doing Bake Off because he gets some sick pleasure out of watching people crash and burn. Bernie laughs at that and Serena is completely taken aback by the sound that emits from her. She realises she’s never heard Bernie truly laugh before. A little chortle or chuckle here or there but not this. This is full-blown laughter as Bernie leans forward and emits the most absurd honking noise Serena’s ever heard come out of another human. It’s loud and staccato and honestly completely endearing. Serena thinks if it were anyone else’s laugh it would be annoying as all get out but on Bernie it just sort of works. Also, Serena likes it because it makes Bernie seem a little more… normal. Bernie’s a highly renowned surgeon, a decorated military officer, and so far a phenomenal baker. Serena likes seeing that she’s maybe not completely perfect.

Bernie’s laugh only serves to make her laugh harder, then, which makes Bernie laugh harder, and by the end of it they’re both wiping tears from their eyes as they try desperately to catch their breath.

“You know the worst part?” Bernie says, “is I think you’re right. He’s getting some twisted enjoyment of the whole thing. Bloody hell, I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again.”

* * *

They stay up too late that night, she and Serena. It’s nearing one am by the time they leave the hotel bar for their rooms and Bernie knows she’s going to be tired in the morning. It doesn’t seem to matter though. Somehow, sharing glasses of shiraz in the dimly lit lounge is more important than being well-rested for this competition, even if the competition is what she’s been striving for and looking forward to for months.

The next morning she and Serena share sympathetic smiles over cups of strong, hot coffee and that makes it worth it too. They go through the same things they go through every morning: hair, makeup, interviews, accessory shots of them talking and laughing and getting everything together in the tent. There’s the walk-through with the home economists as well, going through all of the ingredients and tools on their benches before anyone starts baking anything, another morning staple.

The showstopper challenge this week is a biscuit building. It has to be 30cm tall, it has to stand freely, and it has to look amazing. That’s the gist of the parameters. They have four hours in which to make it happen. Bernie’s excited to get to work on this one, has deeply enjoyed practicing this particular bake. There’s something about the construction aspect of it she really likes: measurements and precision and the feeling that one’s made something truly impressive by the end of it.

She’s mixing together the ingredients for her biscuits when Mel and the judges come by to ask her about her structure.

“So Bernie,” Mary says, “tell us about your biscuit building.”

“I am making the Great Mosque of Herat,” she tells them. “Out of a shortbread inspired by khatai, a cardamom and pistachio flavoured biscuit from Afghanistan, and then it will be decorated with candy shards to get a mosaic effect.”

“Fascinating,” Paul says. “What made you choose it?”

“I went there once, while I was serving in the RAMC and it was just absolutely gorgeous. I was completely stunned by it and when this challenge said building it was the first thing I thought of.” What she doesn’t mention, what she doesn’t voice, is that it is at the Great Mosque of Herat, that Bernie first acted on her feelings for Alex. There on a quick holiday born of a weekend’s leave, in the dark corner in the back of a cafe just steps from that impressive structure, she had pressed close to Alex, knees brushing and shoulders touching, and slipped her hand into hers under the cover of the table. They had sat there for hours, talking a little but mostly in silence, as Bernie’s thumb smoothed over Alex’s skin, as she looked into Alex’s eyes and found herself unable to keep her eyes from flitting down to look at Alex’s lips, there was the first time Bernie had found herself needing to exert a great deal of self-control to keep herself from leaning in and capturing Alex’s mouth in a kiss. It’s a beautiful building, a building that will always have a place in Bernie’s heart, and for her that day the beauty of that building paled in comparison to the beauty of a woman who was somehow suddenly so much more than a colleague and a friend.

When Bernie went home two months later and told Marcus she wanted a divorce she had thought of the Mosque, of the beauties and wonders it foretold.

“Now I would imagine that the mosque is quite large,” Mary says, tearing Bernie from her thoughts.

“Quite right, and so I’m only doing a portion of it, known as the Friday Mosque, probably the most culturally recognisable section of it.”

“Are you worried about the shortbread holding the structure?” Paul asks, piercing her with a challenging stare.

“I’m not, no. I’ve done it about 5 times now at home and it’s held its shape every time I’ve done it.”

“Well we look forward to seeing it,” Mary says and they move on.

Bernie talks as she works, she’s getting better at that. Explains some of the history of the mosque to the camera, that it was started around 1200 CE, that it wasn’t originally the largest mosque in town, but that British soldiers destroyed the other, bigger, mosque leaving this one to take up the mantle in its place. That, like many historical buildings, it passed through the hands of many rulers, each adding to it as they pleased, making for a combination of styles and structures.

She’s got templates for each of her pieces and she follows them carefully, cutting out each piece just as she'd planned. The challenge with this, as with everything, will be getting the pieces of the structure cool enough to assemble in time. She gets the first tray of biscuits in the oven, begins to concentrate on other items.

She needs two round pillars, for those she's making a large lot of small round biscuits that will be sandwiched together with icing and pistachios. She's tried everything from biscuit cigars to wrapping biscuit dough around metal tubes and baking them, she found the stack of tiny biscuits to be the easiest and most effective.

While her biscuits bake she starts to make the candy shards with which she’ll decorate the entire structure. She mixes together sugar and corn syrup, covers it, and microwaves it. She adds food colouring and flavouring to each batch (she has one large batch of blue and 3 small batches of yellow, green, and dark blue respectively), and then spreads out the mixture, thinly and evenly, on prepared parchment paper before placing it in the fridge to rest.

She pulls the first batch of the biscuit structure out of the oven and is a little disappointed with how it looks. The biscuit has spread, not by a lot but by enough to make a difference to make a crucial difference to her carefully measured designs. She decided to trim all the biscuits down to her templates while they're still warm and she works quickly, taking care that she doesn't crack any of the pieces.

It's been twenty minutes and her candy trays are ready, she pulls them from the fridge and starts breaking them into pieces with a mallet.

“Taking out your frustrations?” Mel asks as she goes by.

“Exactly,” Bernie replies with a grin.

And then—much sooner than she’d like—they’re halfway through the challenge.

Bernie checks her biscuits, spread them out to cool across her workstation. She needs to start getting them decorated so she can get them assembled. She's using a thin icing for her decorations, thin enough she can spread it on with a silicone pastry brush, but she has to move quickly. Once she's painted a section with the icing she presses on the decorations, her small candy shards—in pieces no more than a centimetre square—some small pieces of pistachios, and some dried edible roses, mixing up the colours to create the desired mosaic effect. It's time-intensive but it does produce a lovely effect. She tried it once, in practice, at assembling first then decorating but it turned out to be very challenging to get the candy pieces stuck on like that. Her stacked biscuit towers get coated in icing then rolled in ground pistachios and blue candy crumbs. After all the pieces of biscuit have been appropriately adorned, she gets on with the assembly.

Bernie has chosen a variation on a basic royal icing to glue her pieces together. One egg white to 340 grams powdered sugar makes for a sturdy paste that dries quickly and is ideal for this kind of construction. It's tricky work, she could use another set of hands, but she manages to get it all put together and holding well. She hears the five minute mark called out just as she's piping the last details. She works as quickly as she can, thankful her hands remain steady even as her heart begins to beat faster at the stress of the impending cut off. She finishes as much as she can, wipes down the tray her biscuit mosque is resting on, and places it at the end of her bench just as the end of the challenge is being called out.

Bernie thinks she likes the end result, it may just be the best it’s ever turned out; Bernie has always performed well under pressure. The true test of the biscuit structures is that they remain standing over time, so while the camera crews film beauty shots of each bake, the bakers have about an hour break. They have some tea, chat about the challenge, all jittery with nerves at the impending judging. Finally they’re called back in for the judging so they all file in, whispering ‘good luck’ to each other as they head to their stations.

Ric’s biscuit building gets judged first. He’s made The Blue Horizon, a historic building from America’s pugilist past. He’s done an impressive job with it, using gingerbread for it and melted boiled sweets for the numerous windows. Once the lid is lifted off, there’s even a little boxing ring inside. It’s held up well, as well, and though his gingerbread is a little lacking on flavour he’s done very well indeed. Henrik’s tried his hand at Westminster Abbey in digestive biscuits, the classic front of it at least with the large round stained glass window. He, too, has chosen to use boiled sweets for the glass, and though he ran out of time and was unable to finish his piping work on the outside, it’s a good job.

Morven also had trouble with time, her vanilla biscuit Louvre is impressive in concept—especially as she’s made the glass pyramid for effect—but part of it has slumped in on the one side. Dom’s chocolate biscuit mill is gorgeous, he’s even got a biscuit water wheel standing in a river of chocolate, and the judges like all of it except for his white chocolate biscuit roof. Zosia’s choice was the colosseum, which she has built out of butter biscuits of all things. It has held up surprisingly well and Bernie thinks what a wise choice it was to make a building that is already partially falling to pieces. The main detraction is neither of the judges like the taste of the biscuits.

Serena’s built Notre Dame gingerbread and—unsurprisingly—she did a bang up job of it. The outside is completely decorated in piped royal icing, with which she has drawn on the windows and features of the building. Bernie secretly roots for her to get Star Baker for the second week in a row. Sacha’s made a gingerbread lighthouse that is, alas, the only structure to have fully collapsed. He baked his gingerbread for the body around a metal tube and it has tumbled under the weight of the decorations on top. Mo has also gone with gingerbread for her structure, though hers holds more of a kick than Sacha’s. Not too much heat, though, Paul admits. Her little gingerbread train station is complete with a little gingerbread train and is really nice.

Raf has done his heritage proud today: not only has he made shortbread for the challenge, he’s built the Glasgow Riverside Museum from it. He has stacked up the biscuits quite ingeniously to create the tell-tale spikes of the building, and the front is decorated with melted boiled sweets for the massive wall of windows.

Bernie’s own creation gets praise from both judges. Out of everything, they are most impressed by the mosaic decorations and they ask her multiple questions about the technique of the candy shards with which she’s achieved the look. The biscuits are baked well, they taste good, Bernie is very happy.

Last of all comes Jac. Jac who has undeniably outdone herself today. She has made not one, but three Great Pyramids out of shortbread. The shortbread was docked all over with little squares to achieve the texture of the pyramids and sits on top of ground praline sand. And as if that isn’t enough, inside of the largest pyramid is a biscuit sarcophagus painted in gold leaf and filled with chocolate.

There’s another break, for the judging, a chance for more interviews and for everyone to try each other’s biscuits. And then it’s back into the tent for the results of the day. It’s quicker, this week, Bernie notes. Paul and Mary were obviously more in agreement. They file back into the tent and line up on the stools to hear the verdict.

“I’ve got the good job this week,” Sue says, “I get to name Star Baker. This week, the accolade is going to someone who makes a mean biscuit sandwich, a shortbread worth millions, and a biscuit building that you could serve to a pharaoh. Congratulations Jac, you’re Star Baker.”

Very well-deserved, Bernie thinks as she claps, very well-deserved indeed.

“I have the worse job today,” Mel says once the applause has died down. “I have to announce who won’t be joining us next week. The person going home this week is… Sacha.”

Sacha nods, has already accepted his fate Bernie thinks, and allows himself to be pulled into a warm Mel-Sue sandwich. Bernie shakes his hand in farewell, hopes this isn’t the last she sees of him, he is such a sweet, lovely man.

As Bernie's driving back to London that night she gets a phone call.

“Wolfe,” she answers once she’s hit the correct button on her steering wheel.

“Hi Ms. Wolfe? This is Bruce Ledshaw calling from Manchester City Hospital. Do you have a moment to speak with me?”

“I do, yes,” Bernie replies, that’s the place where she's scheduled to go for her next locum position.

“Sorry to call so late, and on a Sunday at that, but I've just heard that Mr. Yee, for whom you were going to be covering, is returning from leave early. I hate to do this but I'm afraid we will no longer be needing you to take on that locum position.”

“Oh, okay,” well that's a bit of a disappointment.

“Now, that being said, I might have another opportunity for you, a colleague of mine might be in need of a trauma specialist, did you want that information?”

“Uh, sure,” Bernie snags a pen out of her centre console, scribbles the name and number on her hand.

Bruce apologises once more, Bernie politely tells him it's no problem and ends the call.

Right then, two weeks from now she'll be out of a job. She'll just have to call this person, see what they need and if that doesn’t pan out, start reaching out some feelers again to see what's out there. It won’t be a problem financially, and a bit of spare time might be nice with Bake Off every weekend but still, she doesn't like not working, finds she gets restless if she doesn't have anything to do.


	7. Bread Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bread Week is here!  
> This update is, I believe, the longest yet but I officially have no chill when it comes to bread. I hope that this at least imparts some helpful bread baking knowledge on all of you. As well, because someone asked and others may be wondering: Bake Off is filmed all at once and then broadcast later that year so at this point nobody knows they're on Bake Off (and this fic doesn't end with the end of filming, we'll get to watch Bernie and Serena as the show airs as well)
> 
> also an announcement: this will be the only update for a week or two here. I am going in for surgery on wednesday and then next week is my final exams so I will be either too high or too busy to write. I will be back with Pies and Tarts week before you know it though :)

Bernie holds the phone tight in her hand as she listens to it ring through.

“Ms. Grayson?” she asks once it’s answered. “My name is Bernie Wolfe, I heard from Bruce Ledshaw that you might be looking for a trauma specialist.”

The call goes well. Ms. Grayson has been trying to set up a trauma bay in her hospital for months and has finally gotten the go-ahead for funding. She’s planning to start with the construction right away, what she needs is planning, leadership, and training. Bernie discusses the work she did for a trauma unit in Kiev last autumn that was in much the same vein: helping them set up new trauma facilities and ensuring that everything was running smoothly before handing it off to the hospital’s regular staff.

Nothing's set in stone just yet but Bernie feels optimistic about it. She wouldn't be starting until a few weeks after her current locum position ends anyway, so she would have time to find a place and get everything settled. Ms. Grayson sounds enthusiastic about the prospect but she needs to run it past the board. Bernie agrees to wait to hear from her, thanks her warmly for her time. It would be a bit weird to go back to Holby, to the city where she and Marcus raised their children, but she thinks it could be nice, too. She did always like Holby, moved away mostly because basing herself in London made more sense. Charlotte would be nearby as well, the prospect of spending more time with her daughter is certainly nice.

And Serena's in Holby. She's thought of that a few times since she spoke with Ms. Grayson, wouldn't it be odd if she and Serena ended up working at the same hospital? If they ran into each other in the corridor or grabbing a coffee?

It's an absurd idea, of course, there are many hospitals in Holby and even if this was Serena’s hospital, well, hospitals are big places. No reason to think she’d ever encounter her. She thinks about bringing it up with Serena, casually dropping into conversation. Whenever she has time to think that week, in the shower and on the commute to work and while practicing the week’s bakes, she builds fake conversations in her head, running through how she would throw it in as an aside, ‘Oh, by the way, I'll be in Holby, don't you work in Holby?’ but it feels stilted and forced even in her head. Even worse it feels desperate, like she's stalking her, following her around the country, begging the prettiest girl at school to deign to be her friend.

So when she gets to Bath, joins up with the rest of the remaining bakers for supper at a local Indian joint, she lets the words die on her tongue. She sits beside Serena, that's customary now, the two of them thick as thieves, and resolutely decides in favour of never mentioning it.

“Great to see you again Bernie,” Serena says to her after they've sat down. She puts her hand on Bernie's shoulder in a warm welcome, squeezes gently. It's something Bernie's noticed over the past few weeks, how effortlessly tactile Serena is. Not just with Bernie either, with everyone. Serena doles out hugs and pats and fleeting touches without second thought. It's odd for Bernie. She's always been overly aware of her own bubble, picky about who puts their hands on her. She overthinks everything as well, will reconsider her actions a hundred times even going to hug her own kids. But for Serena, personal intimacy is effortless. She presses close to Bernie, leans in and brushes her shoulder with her own, lets their knees touch under the table, puts her hands on Bernie's back and shoulder and thigh. It's worse after a couple of glasses of shiraz. Wine has a certain effect on Serena's personal bubble: it completely demolishes it.

And it's odd, too, that Bernie doesn't feel herself pulling away. Something about Serena makes it comfortable, natural. With Serena she leans in closer, lets her forehead touch hers as they share a murmured joke, again feels that bubble surrounding them, born, Bernie thinks, of a commonality, not just of their shared age and profession and drive but of their personalities as well. She wonders what it might be like to work with Serena, if this closeness would extend to the professional as well. She thinks they would be good in theatre. She's looked Serena up since meeting her and she has an impressive resume. Glowing references, impeccable record, a Harvard MBA on top of everything else.

“Sorry what?” She says as she realizes Serena's just asked her something.

“I’m considering another bottle, help me finish it?”

“Like you need my help,” Bernie says with a snort. Another bottle of the luscious shiraz probably isn't wise considering what lies ahead for them tomorrow, but Serena has that twinkle in her eye and another bottle is an extension of this warmth and Bernie, really, has never been very good at saying no. “I'm game if you are,” she replies finally and Serena flags down a waiter with a triumphant smile.

Bernie is a bit hungover the next morning. Nothing major, her stomach feels fine thank god, but there’s a niggling little headache right between her eyes and neither coffee nor ibuprofen seems to be getting rid of it. Serena, on the other hand, is maddeningly cheerful.

“Don't you ever get hangovers?” Bernie asks her on the coach trip to Prior Park.

“Sometimes,” Serena admits. “Only from hard liquor though. Shiraz would never dare betray me like that.”

“Hmph,” Bernie snorts at that, “figures.” Serena just smiles sweetly and Bernie finds even that aggravating headaches can’t bring her to hate her.

They go through their usual morning routine: makeup, hair, interviews, whatever else the producer’s whims call for, and then they file into the tent. There's only eight of them now, Essie and Sacha’s presences very much missed by them all. Nothing drives home the fact of the competition more than those around them leaving the tent and not coming back.

“Good morning bakers!” Sue greets them, bouncing on her heels. “Welcome to bread week!”

“Today,” Mel says, “Paul and Mary are asking you to bake a freeform sourdough loaf.”

“You can just  _feel_ the silverback of bread moving in for the kill, can’t you?” Sue seems completely oblivious of the look Paul’s shooting her way. “For the record we did ask Paul to go nicely on all of you this week but we rather think that might have just angered the beast.”

“This bread can be any flavour you like,” Mel continues, “but it must be risen entirely with sourdough. Wild yeast only! The judges are looking for a nice rise, crisp crust, beautiful crumb—”

“Essentially,” Sue takes over, “perfection.” She gives them a little shrug and Bernie thinks that she and Mel might get as much enjoyment out of this as any of them. “On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

The trick with the bread today is going to be rising time, and Bernie relays as much to the camera near her bench. Five hours is absurdly little time when it comes to sourdough and in practice she’s had to play about quite a bit with dough percentage and starter hydration to get it to work in time. Then again, it’s actually only worked once for her within the strict time limit, so...

She’s brought her starter from home and she mixes it together with the other ingredients (it’s a fairly basic bread to begin with, just flour, salt, water, and starter. She’s kneading it—working the dough by lifting it up, slapping it down onto the counter, pressing it down, then lifting it up again—when the judges come by to talk about her recipe.

“Good morning,” she greets them.

“Morning Bernie,” Paul says, “tell us about your loaf.”

“Right, today I will be making what I call my Scarborough Fair loaf.”

“As in ‘parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme’?” Sue asks, she’s tagging along with the judges to hear about the bakes today.

“Exactly, yeah. So it’s a fairly standard white loaf but it’s got those herbs in it.”

“Certainly sounds intriguing,” Mary says. “Though it doesn’t appear as though you’ve got any herbs in there quite yet.”

“No,” Bernie agrees, “I’ve found it rises better if I don’t add them just yet. It’s an herb and oil mix and I find it works better if it’s layered in after the first rise. It’s cut, braided, and then shaped into a sort of boule.”

“And you’ve found after all that it holds its shape?” Paul asks in that maddening way of his.

“Mostly,” Bernie replies, completely honest.

“Mostly?” He gives a little laugh.

“Yes. I had one disastrous failure, if I’m honest, but nothing recently. It seems to be all about getting really good gluten development at the start.”

“I did notice your kneading method,” he says.

“Yes, this is the French method. I find it works well with a stickier dough like this one.” She looks to Paul for a bit of reassurance on that: it is bread week after all, Paul’s area of expertise.

“It can,” he replies, completely unhelpful.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Mary says with a kind smile. And then they’re off, leaving Bernie slightly less sure than she was before. She gets her dough into a well-oiled bowl, into the proofing drawer, pulses her herbs and some garlic in a little food processor, slowly adds the oil until it has a consistency she likes, and salts it to taste. And then she finds she has nothing to do. She accepts a cuppa from one of the production assistants and then looks around at her fellow contestants. Dom’s at the station behind her, leaning over with his forearms resting on his counter.

“This is fun,” he drawls with great sarcasm.

“Better or worse than running around like a chicken with your head cut off?” Bernie fires back.

“Worse!” that’s Serena, from the station beside Dom. “At least when you’re busy you don’t have time to think.”

“Fair enough,” Bernie says with a laugh. Serena meanders over towards them and Bernie notices the line of flour adorning Serena’s cheek. “Oh,” she says, reaching over before she thinks her actions through, “you’ve got a bit of—” and then she’s got her hand against Serena’s cheek, her thumb’s moving to brush the flour from her face, and why oh why would she even do that? She could easily have just told Serena she had flour on her face and she’d have taken care of it herself. But Serena’s skin is soft and warm and it’s over before it’s begun and Bernie’s dropping her hand back to her side, an apology hurrying out of her mouth. “Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Serena replies, ignoring the apology, “though I must tell you it’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve somehow managed to get your arse covered in flour.”

“Oh.” Bernie does her best to twist her body so she can see what Serena’s talking about. She’s right.

“You do know you have an apron, right?” Serena asks, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Yeah I just, I do this thing sort of unconsciously where I wipe my hands on my apron first and then wipe them again on my, um, arse. I don’t really think of it, habit, really.” It’s annoying though. Charlotte had come to stay last week for a few days, had picked out this outfit for her for the show. Dark blue skinny jeans, dark red t-shirt, bright blue high-tops, somehow whatever Lottie chooses always looks better than whatever Bernie can come up with on her own. She hates she’s managed to ruin it already, especially as she has to wear the same thing for both days.

“Oh here,” Serena says as she watches Bernie’s efforts at removing the flour, “turn around.” Bernie does so and Serena cleans off the flour with a few efficient swipes of her hand. “There you are,” she says.

“Thanks,” Bernie replies. She can’t help but feel a bit unsteady, she doesn’t really know why. Perhaps it’s the realisation that this is being filmed, that there’s a possibility all of Britain will watch Serena wipe flour off of her rear end? That must be it.

“Serena,” Sue’s standing at Serena’s bench doing what she calls ‘inspecting’ (i.e. nosily poking about), “is this your starter?” She holds up a large jar.

“Yes,” Serena affirms, walking back towards her bench. “Why?”

“Why is it labelled ‘Juliette’?”

“That’s her name,” Serena says it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Her name? You’ve named your sourdough starter,” Sue’s looking at Serena like she’s completely off her rocker.

“Of course,” Serena replies, always the picture of confidence.

“Oh, of course, right, who wouldn’t name their starter?”

“Exactly. I’ve had Juliette for about thirty five years now, she’s my main starter. Originally she was born from a bit of my mum’s starter and that one was named Julie, so this is Juliette.”

“Am I weird that I think this is weird?” Sue asks the rest of them. Bernie just shrugs, it never would’ve occurred to her to name a starter but far be it from her to consider what she does to be normal. She turns back to the matter at hand—her bread—and leaves the others to the debate on the proper naming conventions of sourdough starters.

She checks the time, decides it’s been long enough, pulls her bowl out of the proving drawer, and uncovers it to take a look. It’s looking good, thankfully. Because of how rushed this whole process is she’s using more starter than she normally would and it means she’s got a nice rise on it. She tests it by pressing two fingers into the dough and explains to a waiting camera operator what the test does. When the indentations from her fingers remain—as they do now—she knows that her dough is done the first prove.

She takes the dough out of its bowl and presses the dough down gently, dimpling it all over. This lets some of the gas the yeast has formed in the first rise escape and redistributes the yeast somewhat so it can find new sources of food within the dough. Then she rolls the dough out into a sizable rectangle. She spreads it with the herb mixture, rolls it up into a tight log—it’s important to stretch the dough at this stage to build up the surface tension that will keep her loaf from collapsing—and cuts that log down the middle to get two halves. The lines of the herb mixture show through beautifully, at least as well as they did at home.

“That looks very good,” she hears Mel say, looks up to see her leaning over the bench. “Not a whole lot like a loaf of bread but, well, it certainly is green isn’t it?”

“The loaf part comes now,” Bernie explains. She sticks two of the ends together, wets them so they mate well, and twists the rest of the length into a nice plait. Mel sticks a spoon in the bowl Bernie had the herb mixture in to taste it and watches Bernie work.

“It looks nice,” she says.

“Hopefully it stays that way,” Bernie replies, ever the optimist.

Once it’s all plaited she rolls it into a spiral—tight but not too tight—wetting the edges of the dough as she goes so that they stick together.

“That looks like a loaf!” Mel tells her happily.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

She places it on a sheet lined with oiled parchment paper, places the ring from a springform pan about it to help it hold its shape as it rises, and places it in the proofing drawer once more. She turns her oven on now, to 215C, she’ll need about forty five minutes on this next rise and then close to an hour in the oven.

“Do you think you’ll get it out in time?” Mel asks her.

“Oof,” Bernie says, leaning back against her counter, “I certainly hope so.”

“It’s rather an odd challenge, timing-wise isn’t it?”

“Yes, all about the waiting, this one. But still, for what we’re being asked to do it’s shockingly little time.”

“If you were making this at home,” Mel asks then, “with a normal sort of recipe, how long would you spend on it?”

“Umm, well, probably for this one… eight hours for the first rise, four hours for the second… So twelve hours, plus an hour to bake it.”

“So thirteen hours, give or take.”

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“And today you’re going to do it in five.”

“Hopefully,” Bernie shrugs. “I guess we don’t know if we’ve really done it or not until the judges have their say.”

“But it’s worked for you in practice, right?”

“Once,” Bernie admits.

“Once?” Mel echoes. Bernie shrugs and Mel laughs. “You are remarkably calm about all this,” Mel says, “considering that your practice loaves didn’t work.”

“Well,” Bernie shrugs, “not much I can do now but see what happens?”

“And you’re not worried?”

“I wouldn’t say that, but I learned a long time ago how to set certain feelings aside when they’re not useful so that’s what you do.”

“That easy.”

“When you’re in surgery you can’t be thinking of all the ways it can go wrong or who they are or what will happen if you get shot or bombed or any of that. All you can do is do your best so that’s what I’m doing here.”

“So you’re confident in it?”

“Do you think I look confident?”

“Um,” Mel steps back and takes a good look at her. "I'd say so, yes."

“Good enough for me.”

Mel laughs and moves on to peck at the available goodies at someone else’s station. There’s yet more waiting, the camera crews get a few extra shots of people mixing or kneading and the team of home economists clear the benches of any remaining dirty dishes.

Bernie leaves her loaf in the proofing drawer for as long as humanly possible. She pulls it out just as Sue is shouting out that they have one hour left in the competition. She whips the plastic wrap off the top, pulls off the springform ring, and slides the loaf, parchment paper and all, into the oven and onto a waiting pizza stone. She has a cast iron pan set on the bottom of the oven as well, she pours a cup of ice cubes into it and shuts the door immediately.

About halfway through the actual baking time, she does end up sitting on the floor in front of her oven. She leans back against the workstation behind her and watches as her loaf bakes. It got some good oven spring which is nice, it looks like it’s baking quite evenly as well. The issue here will be time, really. She went with a smaller loaf than she otherwise would’ve but it’ll still need as much time as possible in the oven. She waits and waits, intent on her bread as she hears everyone moving around in the background.

“Don’t be sour,” Sue calls out, “ _dough_ you only have five minutes left.” Bernie groans at the awful pun, she waits one more minute and then she grabs a set of oven gloves and pulls the bread out of the oven. The loaf has kept its shape nicely (thank god). She turns it over, taps on the bottom with the pad of one finger as she listens intently. It sounds hollow, a decent indication that it’s baked through. Not that she has much of a recourse if it isn’t at this point. She sets it on a cooling rack, waves a pan over it to cool it off as much as possible.

“And that's it, bakers. The challenge is over. Place your loaves at the end of your counters and step back,” Mel calls. Bernie slides her loaf onto her waiting platter, sticks it at the edge of her workstation and steps back. She looks over her shoulder, makes eye contact with Serena who shrugs and rolls her eyes. They all just have to wait for the judges’ verdict now.

Henrik is first, the judges come over to his bench and he announces his artichoke garlic loaf in his habitual clipped tone. It looks good from what Bernie can see, it’s at least held its shape. Paul slices it open, picks up one of the halves and prods it.

“It’s under baked,” he says. Henrik nods at the criticism, ever his composed self. Still, they like the flavour so it’s not a complete loss. Jac’s fig and walnut spelt loaf is next and it looks a treat. The flavour and texture are both praised highly and Paul proclaims it just baked, but five minutes from true perfection. Morven’s Christmas stuffing boule has, unfortunately, not held its shape. It’s spread out into a slightly raised disc, Paul notes that she didn’t work the bread enough in the first knead so the gluten wasn’t strong enough for it to hold its shape. Mo’s spicy kalamata loaf is praised for flavour but the bottom has split along the side and Paul points out that the second rise was too short, the bread had too much oven spring, and the gases pushed their way out of the loaf causing the unsightly break. Raf’s twist on an Italian panmarino, made with a mixture of wheat and spelt flours, is well baked, with a crispy crust and a beautiful crumb, but neither of the judges are pleased with the flavour: both feel it could use more rosemary. Ric’s mustard senfbrot is also flatter than it should be. Paul mentions the concerns he had touched on earlier at the hydration of Ric’s loaf, it was just too slack to hold its shape, add in the temperature at which Ric baked it (180C) and there was no hope for a well-shaped loaf. Next is Zosia and her parmesan pepper sourdough. It’s baked through, and flavoured nicely, but Paul notes the crust is not crispy enough.

“Add some humidity to the oven at the start of the bake,” he recommends, “the steam will give you a nice crisp crust.”

And then he, Mary, and Sue are walking up to Bernie’s station.

“I’ll admit,” Paul says right off, “I’m a little shocked it held its shape.” He cuts the loaf right down the middle and Bernie leans over to inspect the bake. Thank goodness, it looks okay.

Paul and Mary both take a bite, chew away.

“Now that’s the ticket,” Mary says, “absolutely delicious and a very attractive loaf, you could easily see that as the centrepiece for a nice lunch.”

“Thank you,” Bernie says, and they all turn to Paul to hear what he thinks. Paul takes another piece, chews slowly and swallows, then takes a long pause as he looks at Bernie shrewdly. It’s incredibly off-putting and Bernie does her best not to fidget.

“I didn’t want to like it,” he says slowly. “It’s a lot of very strong flavours with the herbs, to get them to work together is almost impossible and to get them balanced without overwhelming the taste of the bread itself…” he trails off, cocks his head. “You’ve done it though,” he says finally and Bernie lets out a huge sigh of relief. “It’s gorgeous, honestly. Beautifully baked, great crumb, the crust is nice and crisp, and the flavours are perfectly balanced.” And then Paul is reaching his hand out across the counter and taking Bernie’s in a firm handshake and she can’t quite believe it’s happening. A Paul Hollywood handshake on bread week of all things!

“Thank you,” she says. It’s all she can say really; no other words can somehow compare to the magnitude of this. She’s just so relieved it actually worked.

“No, thank  _you,_ ” Paul says, “I’ll be asking you for the recipe later.” With that, he and Mary and Mel move off—though not before Mel grabs one of the halves of the loaf and tucks it under her arm.

“For later,” she says with a wink.

Bernie finds herself looking behind her, unconsciously looking towards Serena, Serena simply grins big, gives her a thumbs up, mouths ‘handshake’ with all the excitement that Bernie feels. She forces herself to pay attention to the judges once more, they’re looking at Dom’s pumpernickel and onion loaf now. It’s baked, but it has split on the side (Dom didn’t make any slashes in the top by which the gases could escape during baking) and it’s dry (Paul chalks this up to the low hydration of his original mix). It’s unfortunate and Dom looks understandably disappointed in his results. Bernie gives him a sympathetic grimace and wrings her hands as she watches the judging move on to Serena. Serena’s loaf is a fifty percent whole wheat tomato and fresh basil loaf. It’s a traditional cottage loaf in shape—one smaller round of dough on top of another larger one—and it looks beautiful from where Bernie’s standing. It’s nicely browned and slashed all around in the classic manner. She finds herself holding her breath as Paul cuts into it, is relieved when it’s pronounced to be well baked, delicious in flavour, well made all around. She thinks it’s interesting, the atmosphere that the tent creates, how she wishes so for everyone else to do well. Even more so with Serena but, well, that just speaks to the friendship that’s already developed between the two of them.

With the judging over, they all file out to get interviewed on the grounds. It’s a warm beautiful day and the sun beats down on Bernie’s face as she speaks.

“It’s completely overwhelming" she says. "I went in there and did the best I could and I got a handshake! Just really chuffed about the whole thing.”

* * *

“Star baker in your sights now?” Serena asks as she sits down beside Bernie for lunch. They’re outside at wooden picnic tables, Serena’s plate piled high with pieces of everyone’s bakes.

“Oh, I don’t, I don’t think so,” Bernie says, looking up at her through her fringe and Serena can’t help but smile at her ridiculously messy hair.

“Really? However you could not?” It’s obvious to Serena, she doesn’t understand Bernie, perhaps she’s being modest?

“I, I don’t know… I mean I guess it’s a possibility but I wouldn’t want to think of it too much. Better not to get your hopes up, you know?” Bernie bites her lip, shrugs, Serena thinks that’s a little sad, thinks the anticipation of succeeding is almost as good as the prize itself.

“Your choice,” she says, because it is. She takes a bite of Bernie’s loaf, “good lord this is good!”

“Thanks.” And Bernie’s smiling that timid little smile of hers, the one that always disappears after a second, the one Serena loves to see. “Yours is really good, too.”

“I know,” Serena says with a laugh, bumps her shoulder against Bernie’s and she laughs along.

After lunch they go back into the tent, stand at their stations and wait with nervous anticipation to hear what their technical challenge of the week will be.

Mel and Sue invite Paul and Mary to leave the tent for the technical, Paul pausing to give them the unhelpful advice of ‘be careful with the shaping’. Once they’re gone, Mel and Sue let the bakers in on the challenge.

“Today,” Mel says, “Paul and Mary are looking for you to make a colomba di Pasqua. You have two and a half hours.”

“On your marks,” Sue begins.

“Get set,” Mel adds.

“Bake,” they finish together.

As Serena looks down at the recipe her only thought is What the hell. She’s never heard of a colomba di whatever it is, and she has no idea what to do. She reads over the recipe once, then again. It’s less than helpful. It’s an enriched dough, that’s basic enough, but there’s no oven temperature and no baking time. The instructions are simply ‘make dough in usual fashion, let rise’ and then it instructs her to split the dough into two sections, one larger than the other, and lay one piece on top of the other to make a dove? She thinks that sounds fairly absurd honestly. And then she’s supposed to let it rise again, brush it with a glaze, and bake it. Well. She may as well start by making the dough, that, at least, she can do.

She proofs her yeast, takes a long look at the ingredients list and decides to leave out the candied fruit until after it’s risen for the first time. She’s kneading her dough when Sue comes up.

“So Serena, what are you thinking?”

“That Paul Hollywood’s a sadist,” she bites back. Sue’s laugh is shocked.

“I take it you haven’t heard of the colomba di Pasqua before?”

“Not as such, no.”

“How are you feeling about it?”

“Not great,” Serena admits. “The dough part is fairly simple but it’s supposed to look like a dove?”

“Ah.”

“Yes. So I’m making it up as I go along.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She fumbles her way through with the rest of the recipe, kneads in the fruit after the first rise, gets it as evenly distributed as she’s able. Then she does her best to shape it. It doesn’t really look like a dove after she’s done, but a surreptitious glance at those around her assures her that nobody else’s looks that much like a dove either. She lets it rise again, until she feels it’s doubled in size, brushes the top with the glaze, puts the bread in her oven (preheated to 190C) and settles down to wait.

She doesn’t really mean to end up on her knees anxiously looking through the door of her oven, but with little information on cooking heat or time there isn’t a better way to figure out when the bread will be done. After the first fifteen minutes, she puts the heat down to 180, figures she’ll need to leave it for twenty to thirty minutes more. It ends up being twenty five. She pulls it from the oven, sticks an instant read thermometer right in the centre and is happy to see it read eighty seven degrees. Mel calls out the end of the challenge and Serena walks forth with everyone else, glad to see that hers looks about par with the other bakes.

“Did you have any clue what the hell you were doing?” She murmurs to Mo after they’ve been seated beside each other for the judging.

“Not in the slightest,” Mo replies. “You?”

“Absolutely no idea, I guess all we can do is hope.”

The judging is, unsurprisingly, harsh. Only a couple of the bakes get praised as being close to what they were supposed to get. The others are lambasted for shape, colour, bake, and taste. Serena is disappointed to hear that hers is dry and under proofed. She sits in nervous anticipation as Mary and Paul speak under their breaths about how to order the bakes.

“Okay,” Mary says finally, stepping forward. “In tenth place is this one.” Ric raises his hand to claim it as his. “It’s under baked,” she tells him plainly and he nods. Dom is second, his is under baked as well. Then it’s Henrik, Mary tells him that his dove was under-kneaded and thus didn’t hold its shape. Serena places seventh, she’s disappointed but certainly not shocked. The fact that she was anything above tenth place is a marvel, honestly. Next is Jac, then Mo, and then Morven. Zosia takes third place, Raf second. Which leaves Bernie. Lovely, humble Bernie who raises her hand with a timid grin when her bake is called out as first. Everyone claps warmly and Bernie looks down at the ground, biting her lip in that way Serena has noticed she always does when the attention’s on her.

“Had you made that before?” Serena asks her once they’re on the bus headed back to their hotel for the night.

“Never even heard of it,” Bernie says. “Pure, blind luck I’m afraid.”

“Fuck you,” Serena tells her, only partially joking.

“I know, I know, I’m awful. Any way I can make it up to you?”

“You can start by buying me a glass of shiraz when we get back to the hotel.”

“Works for me.”

* * *

Bernie wakes up extra early the next morning. She groans as she turns off her alarm, takes a moment to lay in bed with her pillow over her face and contemplate the horror of standing up. She does eventually make it upright, stumbles into the loo to splash her face with cold water and brush her teeth. She needs to start saying no to Serena’s suggestions of another glass, another bottle, just one more drink. She looks at herself in the mirror, wonders if she should admit right then and there that she’ll never say no. There’s something about Serena that makes the word yes tumble out of Bernie’s mouth before she can give it a second thought.

She groans, stretches, ties her hair back into a ponytail. The reason she’s up so early is so she can go for a run. She desperately needs one, after yesterday. The success will get to her, otherwise, if she doesn’t have a chance to clear her mind before stepping into the tent once more. Failure Bernie could handle with grace but success doesn’t sit with her well, it never has. She runs an eight mile loop through the town of Bath, it’s early enough that the streets are mostly deserted and the sun has just started rising into the sky when she sets out. She’s almost back to the hotel when she passes by a café just opening its doors. On a whim she stops, goes inside, orders two lattes and two pastries—one croissant, one pain au chocolat—it’s stupid and impulsive but Serena mentioned once how much she loves a good pain au chocolat and from the smells coming out of this place they know what they’re doing with pastry. She moves slower for the last few blocks to the hotel, careful not to spill the coffees, doesn’t start over thinking her actions until she’s in the lift on the way up to the fifth floor.

How is she supposed to know that Serena even wants a coffee? Or a pastry, for that matter? She’s being remarkably forward, isn’t she, just buying these things for her without even pausing to think if Serena’s going to want them or not. Who’s to say Serena’s even awake right now? There’s still forty-five minutes before the bus leaves and Bernie has no idea how long it takes Serena to get ready in the morning. She almost decides to bin the extra coffee and pastry, but some brave, foolhardy part of her brain manages to convince the rest of her to at least try giving them to Serena. She knocks softly at her door, doesn’t want to run the risk of waking her if she’s still in bed. After half a minute she turns to walk away, at least she could say she tried, but then the door’s opening and Serena’s standing there in just trousers and vest and her hair is wet and messy and her face is clean of makeup and she looks soft and beautiful.

“Bernie!”

“Hi, um, I was out and I saw, um… Pastry?” She holds up the little paper bag and the drinks tray.

“Bless your heart that’s exactly what I need right now.” Serena takes the offered coffee cup and bag, looks inside to see what Bernie got her and smiles even wider. “Thank you,” she says, “I love pain au chocolat.”

Bernie wants to say ‘I know’ but she worries it’ll come across odd, too familiar so she ducks her head instead.

“No worries,” she murmurs.

“What were you doing out and about at this hour?” Serena asks her, “oh god don’t tell me you were out jogging or something awful like that.”

“Uh… Well…”

“You were weren’t you? Good lord I’m friends with someone who runs for fun.”

It’s too early in the morning for Bernie to handle this, the teasing in Serena’s tone that borders on flirting, the sparkle in her eye, but she’s just called Bernie her friend and that makes Bernie’s heart feel warm and tight so all she can do is give Serena a cautious smile and make a quick strategic retreat.

“Well I should go—shower, change.”

“Of course.” Bernie’s made it a couple of steps away when Serena calls out again, “oh and Bernie?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks again.”

“You’re very welcome.”

That warm feeling doesn’t leave Bernie all morning. It stays with her through getting ready, through the coach ride to the tent, through all the tedious minutiae of preparation for filming. She’s standing at her work station waiting for the challenge to start and she looks over her shoulder to where Serena’s standing. Their eyes meet, Serena mouths ‘good luck’ and the warmth in Bernie’s chest just grows stronger.

“Good morning bakers!” Mel greets them. “It’s showstopper day.”

“Today you are being asked to make 48 filled rolls,” says Sue.

“There must be 24 sweet and 24 savoury rolls,” Mel continues, “apart from that they can be any flavour, any style. We’re looking for a nice, even bake and uniform look. You have five hours.”

As they both shout ‘bake’ Bernie sets to work, starting with her doughs. Two different kinds of buns means two different types of dough and she works quickly, proofing yeast and arranging her other ingredients. She’s already got the first batch in the proofing drawer by the time Mary, Paul, and Mel come by to chat about her recipe plans. She explains to them her two recipes, both are Chinese in origin, one is a baked variation on cha sui bao, pork buns, the other is gai mei bao, often called cocktail buns.

“I found this recipe for cha sui bao online soon after I started baking,” she explains. “I made them once and my son Cameron fell absolutely in love with them. I made a batch of about 20, the first time. He was staying over with me at the time and they were gone in three days,” she laughs, “I think I ate two of them? Now I make them every few weeks. I think Cam expects a constant supply when he visits.”

The judges laugh at the story, thank her and move on, leaving her to work on her second batch of dough. Sue comes up while she’s kneading it.

“You’ve got some good arm strength there,” she says with admiration.

Bernie looks up and grins, raises her right arm and flexes her biceps.

“Good lord!” Sue exclaims, reaching out to feel Bernie’s arm. “Wow, tell me you got these just from kneading bread.”

“If I said I did would you believe me?” Bernie jokes. “No, no, I’m afraid I go to the gym like everyone else. It became habit in the army.”

“Right,” Sue still hasn’t taken her hand off of Bernie’s arm. “You know I am getting a vision right now of you in that army uniform…”

“Ha! You wish,” Bernie shoots right back.

Sue just grins before moving on to joke around with someone else, and Bernie concentrates on preparing her fillings. She cubes the pork quickly, sautés it with onions in a pan, adds water, corn-starch, and her seasonings. The original recipe called for leftover barbecued pork but Bernie’s played around with the seasonings from scratch to get something she’s happy with. Hoisin sauce, oyster sauce, soy sauce, ketchup, and chinese five spice all go in the pan. She tastes a bit, adds a dash more of the hoisin sauce, and tastes it again. There it is, she’s happy with that.

The filling for the cocktail buns is much simpler, something she took into consideration when choosing recipes for this challenge: sometimes simple is best. The crux of this challenge is getting everything shaped and baked and baked well. Five hours seems like a lot but standing in the tent trying to actually get this done she feels she could use twice as much. She mixes butter, caster sugar, cake flour, dry milk powder, and desiccated coconut together in a bowl, sets it aside and goes to check on her dough.

Bernie lifts the towel and plastic wrap off of the first bowl of dough, wets her finger with a bit of water and pokes into the dough. The dough feels spongy under her finger and when she pulls her hand back the hole doesn’t fill in at all. She nods happily: it’s ready. She checks the second batch of dough, when she pokes that one the hole fills in slightly indicating that it needs a bit more time. Works for her; she can only work with one batch of dough at a time anyway.

“How’s it going?” Sue asks, wandering past her bench. Bernie just laughs, a little breathless. “That good huh?”

“It’s fine, just got to keep going,” Bernie says with a shrug, watches as Sue sneaks a taste of the pork filling.

“Mmm this is good!” she tells Bernie, eyes wide in appreciation.

“Hey! I need that,” Bernie protests. Sue acquiesces, raises her hands in surrender, watches as Bernie begins to divide her dough.

“Do you always weigh your dough when you divide it?” Sue asks, leaning over Bernie’s shoulder as she works.

“Um, yeah,” Bernie bites her lip, “I wish I could say that I just eyeball it at home but I’m more comfortable when I know that every piece is the same size exactly.”

“Some of that doctorly precision coming into play.”

“I guess so.” Bernie covers the divided pieces of dough with a damp towel, starts rolling out her first one making sure that it’s as close to a perfect circle as she can manage, feels a bit ridiculous as she pulls out a ruler and measures the diameter.

“Wow you aren’t messing about are you?” Sue exclaims. “Y’know I think I would let you operate on me. If this is the kind of precision you use for Bake Off I can’t imagine what you would be like in surgery.”

“Actually,” Bernie replies as she takes a carefully measured spoonful of filling and drops it into the centre of the piece of dough, gathers the sides of the dough around the filling, folding them carefully and wetting the edges to bind them closed, “I go a lot more by instinct in surgery.”

“You’re saying you use more precision in baking than in surgery?” Sue is aghast.

“No, don’t misconstrue my words, I’m very precise, but I’m much better at surgery than I am at baking. In theatre I know what to do almost without thinking about it, here in the tent I have to plan out every step.”

Sue laughs at her for that, mucks about her station a bit more, asks Bernie innumerable inane questions about surgical techniques and Bernie plays along jovially. She finds she really deeply enjoy Mel and Sue’s presence in the tent. She’s seen them comfort her fellow bakers when something goes completely awry, stand beside a crying the person and curse a blue streak so the footage can’t be used in production, watched them lend helping—though not always helpful—hands on numerous bakes, and personally enjoys the ridiculous distraction their antics provide in every challenge.

Sue wanders off to poke and prod at someone else’s work and Bernie continues with the work of filling and sealing her buns, the most challenging part of this recipe. She’s had enough of these buns split apart while baking to know she needs to be extra careful. At home it doesn’t matter, Cam will gladly eat these in any way they come (even happily ate an entire batch with burned bottoms when Bernie forgot about them in the oven), but here, with Paul and Mary judging, a split open roll spilling out filling would be a disaster. She places the filled buns, seam side down, on pans covered in parchment paper, covers them in clingfilm, and moves onto the cocktail buns.

These are easier to fill, just needing to be spread with the paste-like filling and then rolled into little logs, tucking the ends underneath to seal in the filling entirely. The work goes fairly quickly and Bernie’s got the cocktail buns arranged on parchment lined baking sheets of their own before the others are done proofing.

It gives her a little break, a chance to have a cuppa and double check her oven temperatures. She looks about her at the other bakers, some scurrying madly about, others taking a break like herself. Jac is at the station in front of Bernie’s, sipping tea and observing everyone else. They make eye contact and Bernie feels like she should say something.

“Things going okay there, Jac?”

“Well enough,” Jac says in that clipped manner she often adapts. Bernie thinks that Jac’s cold and removed routine would be a lot more convincing if she hadn’t seen her helping Zosia with kneading techniques yesterday, or giving Dom a hand assembling his biscuit structure last week. But it’s not her place or her manner to say anything so Bernie just nods, goes to check on her pork buns, pokes a couple and is satisfied they’ve proofed well enough.

The tricky part is getting everything baked and baked evenly. The cha sui bao need about twenty five minutes in the oven, the gai mei bao about fifteen, and not all forty-eight will fit in the oven at once, she has three pans of each type. She brushes the cha sui bao with egg wash, puts the first two pans in the oven.

She does her best not to spend the entire time crouched in front of the oven. It’s pointless, really, at the end of the day she just has to let them bake, has to give over some bit of control and let everything come as it may. She perches on the edge of her bench instead, uses her vantage point to watch her fellow bakers move about, juggle pans covered in rolls at various stages of doneness, kneel in front of their ovens in supplication as they wait for their rolls to bake. She hears Henrik’s quiet cry of disappointment, looks over to see him pointing out to Mel where some of his rolls have split, leaking out filling, a camera operator carefully capturing the moment.

She watches Jac take her rolls out of the oven, the first two pans beautifully browned and uniform, feels her stomach clench with nervous energy, hopes that hers will look half as good. Her timer goes off, spurs her into action, and she calls over a producer as she goes to pull her first two pans out of the oven. They’ve baked well. She flips them over to check the bottoms and is happy with how they look. She moves them all onto cooling racks, puts the last pan of cha sui bao in the oven and moves to work on the toppings for the gai mei bao.

Cocktail buns are known for the strips on either side—stark white against the golden-brown rolls. She coats each roll in egg wash first, then pipes on the two strips (a mixture of cake flour, butter, and caster sugar) and sprinkles a couple of sesame seeds on the top. She pops the first pan of them in the oven when there’s fifteen minutes left on her oven timer, mixes a sugar syrup for when they’re baked.

Then there’s more standing about, officially Bernie’s latest favourite part of the competition. It’s not even restful, all she can think about is all the ways in which her bakes could go horribly wrong. She feels antsy and nervous, wishes she had something to do with her hands. She looks over to where Serena is kneeling in front of her own oven, catches her eye and gives her a shy smile. Serena’s smile in return is wide and open and just for Bernie. It makes her feel calmer immediately. At the very least, even if she fails miserably, Serena will be there. Bernie doesn’t know why that feels so important, why it calms her down so well. But it is, it does. She turns her attention back to her baking, checks her timer and feels less restless than she did just a minute prior.

She manages to get all of her rolls baked in time. Just. She’s painting the very last cocktail bun with sugar syrup when Mel calls out the end of the challenge. She steps back, looks down at her collection of rolls with a critical eye and thinks they don’t look half bad. She desperately hopes they taste as good.

The bakers file outside for their interviews, the camera crews film shots of the bakes, and then they’re ready for judging. Dom walks up first with a large basket filled with rolls, announces them to be chicken and mushroom rolls and apple stuffed sweet rolls. Mary and Paul take a long look at them, Mary points out that a couple of the apple ones have caught a bit on the bottom.

“Likely due to some of the moisture of your filling leaking out,” she says and Dom nods. Overall though, his bakes get a good review. The flavour is good and the fillings are moist, but they were just a minute or two too long in the oven. Jac’s up next and Bernie’s unsurprised to see her rolls not only look beautiful (uniform, perfectly browned) but taste good as well. She’s made dill and cottage cheese perishke and blueberry and sour cherry piroshki and they really are gorgeous. Mo comes up next, with sweet potato chorizo rolls and beehive sweet rolls. The chorizo flavour is pronounced as overwhelming in the first, the second (filled with cream cheese and soaked in honey syrup) are found to be too sweet.

“It’s disappointing,” Paul tells her, “you’re usually very good with your flavours. But these just don’t hit the mark.”

“Still,” Mary says, “they are very well baked and they are all uniform in size and colour.”

Next is Morven with her sriracha tofu rolls and chocolate crescent rolls. The judges point out the inconsistent size of them (and thus the inconsistent bake) but she gets top marks for flavours on the sriracha rolls. The chocolate crescent rolls, it's thought, could have used more chocolate.

Bernie’s very interested in Raf’s bake of the day. He’s made lentil dal filled rolls for his savoury option and banana coconut rolls for the sweet. The sweet rolls have banana in the dough itself and are filled with a sort-of coconut custard from what Bernie can see. They both look delicious and Bernie can’t wait to try them. The judges praise the flavour of both. Paul does think the banana coconut rolls could’ve used mere minutes longer in the oven for a truly perfect bake.

Henrik’s beef, cabbage, and cheddar rolls have, as Bernie saw earlier, almost all split open in oven. His cardamom semlor with vanilla almond filling are unevenly sized and were filled when the buns were still too warm, leaking sticky filling onto the plate. He takes the negative comments with a composed nod. At the very least, the flavour combinations of the sweet rolls work well, though the same can’t be said for the savoury rolls, which neither of the judges like.

Then it’s Bernie’s turn, she walks up to the front with her rolls, thinks ‘don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip’ the whole way, just as she always does. She clenches her hands at her sides as the judges try both of her bakes, feels incredible relief when both are praised. Neither Mary nor Paul have had cocktail rolls before and Bernie was worried about their reactions. Especially as she knows Paul is not the biggest fan of coconut. Apparently it’s a non-issue, and they agree that both the rolls are well baked, beautifully browned, uniform, and absolutely delicious. It’s the last one that Bernie cares about the most: who cares how good a bake looks if it’s not going to taste good?

She walks back to her bench, lips pursed on the smile she can feel about to break out on her face. She can’t contain it any longer when she makes eye contact with Serena, who gives her a thumbs up and mouths ‘star baker’ once more, can feel herself grinning like a fool as she sits back down at her station and watches the rest of the judging.

Ric goes up next. He’s made ginger chicken crescent rolls and sweet poppy seed filled rolls, and gets a mixed review from the judges. The crescent rolls are too dry, Mary doesn’t think the flavours work well together though Paul does. Mary likes the thick poppy seed paste in the middle of his sweet rolls, Paul goes so far as to call it revolting, which Bernie does think is a bit harsh. It's hard to see where he stands after those results. Then it’s Serena’s turn. She’s made caramelized onion, pancetta, and gruyere spiral rolls, they look almost like a savoury take on a cinnamon roll, and apricot buchteln, sweet rolls with a jam-like apricot filling in the centre. Bernie’s delighted when the judges like both. They praise the spiral rolls in particular for the ingenuity of the rolls as well as the flavour. Bernie gives Serena a surreptitious thumbs up of her own as she makes her way back from the judging, can’t keep her eyes from the giddy joy apparent on her friend’s face.

Zosia’s the last one up with her bakes. She’s made kalamata and sundried tomato rolls and fig and chocolate bukta. Bernie feels a twinge of sympathy as Paul pokes at the savoury rolls and judges them under baked, rolls a bit of the dough in his hand and demonstrates that it turns right back into dough. Still, her sweet rolls are well reviewed and she takes the criticism and praise with equal grace.

There’s another round of interviews as the judges decide who will be going home this week. It takes quite a while for the judging this week and the bakers hang out in a group outside, comfort those who had disappointing results today and congratulate those who did well. Finally they’re told the judges are ready for them and they move back into the tent in a group, sit on the row of stools and wait for the results.

“I’ve got the fun job this week,” Mel says clapping her hands together, “I get to announce Star Baker. This week it’s someone who can bake a song into a loaf of bread, who makes the most delicious bird I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating, and who has, by all accounts, lovely buns. Congratulations Bernie, you’re Star Baker.” Everyone applauds loudly. Bernie can’t quite believe her ears. She sits in stunned elation as it sinks in that she’s done it. She’s gotten Star Baker.

“I have the considerably less fun job this week,” Sue says, “I have to announce who won’t be joining us next week.” She pauses and everyone sucks in a breath of anticipation, “Henrik.” Bernie looks over as Henrik nods solemnly, as composed as ever. “Oh c’mere you! Into the Mel Sue Sandwich, we are so going to miss you.” Henrik lets himself be pulled into the hug and everyone stands up, crowds around to say goodbye to him, and to congratulate Bernie.

“Congratulations” Serena murmurs in her ear from behind her and Bernie turns around, meets Serena’s smile with one of her own. “You so deserve it,” Serena says and then she pulls Bernie in for a tight hug. Bernie wraps her arms around Serena’s waist in turn, squeezes.

“Thank you,” she mumbles into her neck and then it’s over as quickly as it began. That warm feeling suffusing through Bernie’s chest is back and she chalks it up to her joy at winning Star Baker. It’s unbelievable to her that she would win something for baking, she feels a bit like even if she gets booted out next week she’ll be happy with this success.


	8. Pies and Tarts Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!!!  
> Thanks so much everybody for your patience with me and for all the well-wishing. Good news is that the organ yoinking went smoothly and I'm almost back to fighting strength and I got an A and an A+ respectively in my classes!  
> And now, onward with baking. I added a link in the summary of the fic to a post I made on tumblr with a visual guide on all the bakes, just in case you find yourself completely lost.  
> Monday and Friday posting schedule should remain pretty steady from here on out.  
> (Also if you haven't sussed it yet, I'm not Paul Hollywood's biggest fan)

Serena gets to Bath on Friday evening in a very good mood. Her trauma bay, the trauma bay she’s been asking for, fighting for, for months is under construction, and earlier in the week Jayne came by to tell her that she’d managed to secure a locum trauma specialist to help get it set up and running smoothly. Serena’s felt the need for better trauma facilities on AAU for a long time, has often felt just the slightest bit at a loss when they get hit with the really severe trauma cases, and to see this need finally being dealt with makes her very happy.

“You’re in a good mood,” Bernie says that evening as they sit in the hotel lobby enjoying what is now a habitual bottle (or two) of pre-competition shiraz.

“I got some very good news at work this week,” she says simply, figures that Bernie likely doesn’t want to be bored by the administrative minutiae of her job.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bernie says, clinks her glass against Serena’s, “to more of the same.”

“Aye aye,” Serena replies gustily and takes a long swig.

The next morning is heralded by a soft knock on her door while she’s getting ready. She opens it to find Bernie standing there, sweaty and breathless, holding out a coffee and a pastry because apparently this is something they do now. Serena doesn’t question it, in part because both the coffee and the pastry are better than anything the hotel has to offer, but mostly because she likes how Bernie smiles when she hands over the treats (eager, gentle, her face more open in the early light of morning than any other time Serena’s seen her), likes this little moment they have to start off their day all to themselves, far from other contestants and cameras and production assistants.

It gives a little boost to her morning at the very least, and not even the tedious ‘hurry up and wait’ of being part of a tv show can ruin her good mood. It takes the usual while for them to be ready to go, but at last they file into the tent and don their aprons, primed to start their first challenge of the week.

“Morning Bakers!” Sue says, full of pizzazz as usual. “Welcome to the land of pies and tarts, no soggy bottoms allowed.”

“Paul and Mary would love you, please,” Mel says, “for this signature challenge, to make eighteen bedfordshire clangers.”

“They must be made with a suet crust pastry,” Sue elaborates. “They can be baked or steamed, as you choose, but they must be sweet on one end and savoury on the other. Not unlike our very own Paul Hollywood. You have two hours.”

“On your marks,” Mel starts this week.

“Get set.”

“Bake,” they give the final command together and everyone busies themselves immediately.

Bedfordshire clangers are an old fashioned type of hand pie made from suet crust pastry with a savoury filling on one end and a sweet filling on the other that miners used to take to work. Before preparing for this challenge, Serena had never made one in her life. They’re quite outdated now, she thinks, not the type of thing one would make without impetus these days. Which is not to say she hasn’t enjoyed eating them, they are surprisingly delicious, and Jason has—on multiple occasions—praised their practicality.

Serena mixes together flour and salt, then cuts in suet and butter until the mixture resembles coarse meal. She pours in water and one egg, mixes it gently until it just comes together, covers it and sets it in the fridge to chill. Next, she turns her attention to starting her fillings. It’s tricky to get something moist and delicious that still holds well in the pastry casing. Serena tried a number of different recipes before she was able to whittle it down to two she really liked that work well in such a unique application.

“Good morning Serena,” Paul greets her. “Why don’t you tell us about your bake today.”

“Of course. Today I’ll be making lamb stew and strawberry rhubarb bedfordshire clangers.”

“Boiled or baked?”

“Baked. It’s less traditional, I know, but I found I was never able to get a good result from boiling.”

They chat a bit more about technique, including the ever important and tricky job of keeping a small piece of pastry propped up in the middle of the pie to keep the two flavours from running into each other. Nobody wants strawberry rhubarb pie flavoured with lamb gravy.

She starts on her fillings next, works quickly with two pots on the go at once, one stewing lamb, the other rhubarb, both simmering away heartily. She adds a generous splash of shiraz to the pan of lamb stew, takes a swig from the bottle herself.

“Are you going to share that?” Sue asks, suddenly appearing at Serena’s elbow.

“By all means,” Serena replies, handing over the bottle. Sue takes a long drink, brushes the back of her hand over her mouth when she's done.

“Ah, that’s the ticket.”

“A bit early to be laying into the sauce, isn’t it” Raf asks with a laugh from his spot behind Serena.

“Life is fleeting,” Serena fires right back, “you might as well just drink when you want to.”

“You know, that’s a worrisome statement in more ways than one,” he’s grinning even though his tone is chiding.

“It’s true though,” she says with a shrug. She grabs the bottle back from Sue, hands it over to him, “c’mon Raf, drink up!”

“Cheers,” he says solemnly and takes a long drink.

Once her fillings seem to be ready, Serena rolls out her pastry. She’s made up little templates to cut around, for both the clangers and for the small dividing pieces of pastry. Everything goes swimmingly up to when she starts filling the pastry cases.

Crap. Her stew is too runny, falling out of the pastry as she tries to place it in. It’s back to the stove, whisking in some more flour and upping the heat to boil down the filling as quickly as possible. Once it’s thickened considerably she tries again, has much more success this time around. She’s lost time with that little error, though, and she finds herself rushing to get the pastries filled, closed, marked with slashes over the sweet end, brushed with egg wash, and in the oven.

When that’s finally done she can finally breathe, somewhat. Now there’s the stress of worrying about the bake. Putting her faith in an inanimate machine—that will make or break her—is unnerving at best. She kneels before her oven, watches closely as they bake. It’s amazing how thirty five minutes can stretch out so long, here in the tent, when the same time flies by so quickly when she’s at home.

She’s not happy with the bake, not entirely, when Sue announces just five minutes left. She wants to give them more time but she needs to get them out and onto her platter. She leaves them in the oven for just a couple minutes more, pulls them out at the last possible minute. She’s just got them all out and on her platter when Sue announces the end of the challenge. She steps back at Sue’s chiding, feels unsettled and anxious. All she can do is hope they had long enough.

Serena doesn’t have to wait long to find out, she’s the first one up for the judging. She anxiously watches as Paul and Mary cut into one of the clangers.

“It is just the slightest bit under baked,” Mary says, pointing at the layers of pastry at the bottom of the clanger.

“Yes, I didn’t have quite as long to bake them as I hoped,” Serena says with a nod.

“The flavours are delicious, though,” Paul says. “Just a minute or two from perfection.”

It’s too bad, it really is, to have been so close to doing really well and having to settle for mediocrity. Still, Serena squares her shoulders, thanks the judges, and watches as they move on to the rest of the judging.

Raf’s next. His clangers, traditional potato and gammon on one side and blueberry jam on the other are given rave reviews. Well-baked and absolutely delicious, Mary and Paul agree, and everyone watches in awe as he’s the recipient of the second Hollywood Handshake of the competition. Next up is Mo with rosemary pork and apple bedfordshire clangers. Her flavours are good but her pies have unfortunately caught a bit on one side. Then it’s Ric. He’s put turkey and stuffing in one end, apple in the other and the judges are lukewarm on the flavours, finding them a bit bland, the stuffing making the savoury end of his pastries dry.

Serena is completely unsurprised when Bernie’s bedfordshire clangers are pronounced to be wonderful. She’s got chicken tikka masala in one end, mango in a ginger custard on the other side and Serena can’t help but think how clever that is, taking an old classic British pastry and filling it with a newly-classic British dish. She watches Bernie’s reaction, watches how she gives that cautious little smile that disappears in a second, bites her lip, looks down. She knows from talking with Bernie that Bernie doesn’t truly believe that she’s good, doesn’t think she’s got any real talent for this. It seems the only place Bernie’s confident in her abilities in theatre. Serena wishes so deeply she could let her new friend see herself through Serena’s eyes: see how wonderful she obviously is.

After Bernie is Jac, who excels as well. She’s made bacon with potato and cherry clangers and the only negative comment is that her flavours could be a bit stronger, could pack a bit more of a punch. Strong flavours aren’t an issue with Morven, the next baker to be judged. She’s got jerk chicken and baked pineapple bedfordshire clangers. They do look lovely, Serena thinks. The spice makes Paul cough a little but he and Mary both still think it a lovely pastry. Morven grins wide as she thanks them, full of youthful exuberance. Dom’s up next, but his beef skirt and pear bedfordshire clangers are under baked. The pear’s too runny, the liquid has run into the pastry and made for a soggy bottom that splits apart when Paul lifts one of the clangers in the air.

And last of all is Zosia. Her thai spice chicken and sweet sticky rice clangers are well baked but the rice end is judged to be cloying and dense. It seems there’s a divide on this challenge, a fairly stark line through the middle of them separating those who did very well from those who didn’t really succeed at all. Serena follows the group outside, tells the camera that she’s just going to have work twice as hard in the afternoon when she’s interviewed about the morning.

They eat lunch, try some of the clangers, and have a little bit of time before they’re needed back so the group spreads out onto the grounds. It’s an absolutely gorgeous sunny day and Bernie and Serena decide to make the short walk down to the Palladian bridge. A landmark of the park. They stand shoulder to shoulder, lean against the railing and look at the water below.

“What a morning.” Serena’s the one to break the silence. She usually is with Bernie, likes that Bernie’s content to exist with her in silence, never pushes Serena to talk but is more than happy to have a conversation if that’s what Serena wants.

“Yeah.” Bernie pauses for a while and Serena watches as the light breeze makes her fringe flutter about her face. “It’s wild how drastic everything seems when you’re in the tent. I never thought I’d be this anxious over some pastry.”

“Certainly feels life or death when you’re in the thick of it, doesn’t it?” Serena agrees. “Though you and I both know what life or death situations really feel like.”

“Mmmm,” Bernie hums in agreement, “theatre’s different though. Not as…” she trails off. “Different,” she adds after a bit.

“Hard to explain but I know what you mean. Never would’ve thought baking would make me yearn for a ten hour surgery though.”

Bernie laughs, nods, doesn’t go to say anything else, and Serena stands quietly besides her, watches as Bernie’s fingers dance between each other.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Serena says eventually, leaning into Bernie, “nice to have someone else who gets it.”

“Glad to be here,” Bernie mumbles in return, so quiet Serena has to strain to make out the words.

“Well,  guess we should head back to it shouldn’t we?” Serena asks. Bernie nods. “Once more into the breach and all that,” Serena says as she straightens, nudges Bernie a little with her arm and gets a rare smile in return.

* * *

There’s a moment, just one fleeting moment, standing on Palladian bridge in Prior Park that’s complete perfection. For that one moment Bernie feels completely at peace, manages to forget entirely about the competition and the anxiety and everything else. For that short moment her entire existence condenses down to the sunny day and the ripples in the water beneath them and the light breeze skipping about them, and the warmth of Serena pressing into her side.

It’s gone almost immediately. Gone and Bernie must come crashing back down to reality, to the anxiety of a baking competition, to the stress of having to move and start a new job in the next couple of weeks. She shakes her head. Getting wrapped up in little moments with Serena like this is becoming more and more of a problem. It’s just her getting too excited, too invested in a friendship. Maybe it’s her own fault for never fostering close friendships with other women in her life so that when she gets one it consumes her so wholly. She puts all thoughts of Serena and Serena’s smile and the light playing off of Serena’s beautiful brown hair and lighting up Serena’s features, Serena’s eyes, Serena’s perfect chin behind her. Forces herself to concentrate on the baking instead.

“Welcome bakers, to your pies and tarts technical challenge,” Mel says brightly. “Now, Paul and Mary, you’re not welcome here for this challenge so off you go.”

“Yes, yes, begone you,” Sue adds, flapping her hands to hurry them on their way. Then she turns back to the contestants, “okay then. This week, Paul and Mary would very much like for you to make eight conversation tarts.”

“They don’t have to talk to each other,” Mel says, “though we would be very impressed if they did. But they should be worthy of a bit of banter, or perhaps a smidge of witty repartee.”

“You have two hours bakers,” Sue tells them. “On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Bernie tugs the gingham cloth cover off of the ingredients and pulls the recipe towards her. She thinks she’s probably seen a conversation tart at some point in her life but she has absolutely no idea what they’re supposed to look like. The recipe is, as usual, unhelpfully sparse. It gives an oven temperature but no baking time and there’s barely any description of any of the method.

‘Make a rough puff,’ is all the first line says. That, at least, Bernie can do. She mixes together the salt, flour, and butter, adds the water, is careful to work it as little as possible. She rolls it out, folds it into a book fold, and sets it aside in the fridge to chill.

Next is the frangipane. ‘Mix together the almond meal, butter, caster sugar, flour, and eggs,’ the recipe reads. Bernie doesn’t know if she should cream the butter first, or the butter, eggs, and sugar. She goes with all three, then adds the rest of the dry ingredients. Once it seems to be mixed well she sets it aside, moves onto the next stage. ‘Make a jam,’ it says, doesn’t extrapolate beyond that. Bernie mixes together equal parts sugar and raspberries in a pan, heats it until it boils and then keeps it boiling until it’s set. When she’s happy with the jam, she makes the royal icing by whipping an egg white with a bit of cream of tartar and then adding icing sugar. She sets it aside, covers the bowl with cling film so the icing doesn’t dry out.

Now the time has come for assembling the tarts and this is where Bernie’s at a complete loss. She rolls out the pastry, cuts it out in circles, lines the provided small pastry moulds, makes sure to grease the moulds first. The recipe calls for a layer of jam on the bottom of the tart and then the frangipane. Bernie chooses to pipe in the frangipane, figures she’ll make less of a mess that way. On top of the frangipane goes another pastry disc, pressed down to join the pastry together. Then they’re supposed to rest in the fridge once more.

She doesn’t have much time, all things considered, so she only leaves them in there for about ten minutes before moving onto the next step. According to the recipe, she’s now supposed to put a layer of icing on top of the pastry and then use thin lines of excess pastry to make ‘the customary crisscrossed design’.

Bernie wishes desperately that she had paid more attention to obscure French pastry at some point in her life. She decides on two lines of pastry overlapping each other in the centre, figures that it’ll have to do because she really has no idea what else to do. It’s an odd feeling, to be so completely lost. She’s doing everything on instinct at this point and, quite frankly, she doesn’t have the baking background to expect success from that.

She slides the tarts into the oven, figures she’ll start at twenty minutes and then see how they’re doing. At twenty minutes she decides to leave them in for another five, then another five after that. She pulls them out, sets them on the cooling rack and waits a minute for the end of the challenge to arrive. Her tarts look less than ideal. A couple have split their pastry casing, splitting between the sides of the tart and the lid. Other than that, they look fairly okay but it’s hard to know when she doesn’t know what they’re supposed to look like. She brings her tarts up with everyone else, sets them behind her picture on the table, and joins her fellow bakers on the line of stools.

It’s not the best looking technical bake by any means. Bernie can see that the others were about as clueless as she was. A couple stand out as looking much better but most look at least a bit of a mess. Bernie is disappointed, but not really surprised, when hers is critiqued heavily. Her pastry is too thick, she overfilled the cases with frangipane, and the design on the top was apparently supposed to be a lattice style. Most of the other bakers didn’t do much better.

Mary and Paul discuss the results quietly and Bernie sits on her stool with her hands trapped between her thighs and hopes for better than last place.

She gets her wish.

Ric gets last place in the technical. His tarts were overfilled and under baked and a couple stuck to the tins while he was getting them out, leaving broken tarts on his plate. Dom is eighth, also under baked and his tarts have a soggy bottom. Bernie doesn’t do much better, coming in seventh, but it’s as well as she could’ve hoped for. Raf’s sixth, Mo fifth, and Jac fourth. Serena does well, getting third. Her tarts are a good effort but needed a bit less jam and a bit more frangipane. Morven gets second. And first place is Zosia with a lovely conversation tart, well baked, with a delicate topping in the correct configuration. Mary goes so far as to say that Zosia’s tarts could be seen proudly displayed in the window of a French bakery and Zosia beams with joy. Bernie sets her shoulders, does her best to be pleasant and optimistic in her interviews, and heads back to the hotel at the end of the day knowing that she’ll need to work her arse off in the showstopper.

* * *

Serena wakes up Sunday morning with a groan, she should really stop staying up so late with Bernie. Unfortunately there seems to be something about the woman that circumvents all of her impulse control. Serena hasn’t had a close friend in a long time. The closest she’s come to has been boyfriends and that, well, that’s just really not the same thing. Now that she has Bernie, has this person she loves seeing that she can share everything about her life with, well it’s hard to say no to spending more time with her. It’s her favourite parts of these weekends, sitting close to Bernie in the lobby of the hotel sharing bottles of Shiraz. Bernie’s funny and smart, she and Serena have similar lives, similar political opinions, and conversation between them flows as easily as the wine.

She’s just got out of the shower when she hears Bernie knock on her door, wraps her towel around herself and hopes Bernie doesn’t mind her lack of clothing when she opens the door. She gratefully accepts the coffee and pastry Bernie holds out to her, notices the way that Bernie’s eyes skim over her bare shoulders.

“Sorry,” she says, “just got out of the shower when I heard you knock.”

“It’s fine,” Bernie says, her voice tinged with something Serena can’t name.

She spins about and leaves immediately and Serena just shrugs, closes the door, and takes the first sip of the piping hot latte. She could really get used to this.

If Bernie’s awkward at first when she and Serena end up next to each other in the group that huddles about waiting for direction on the grounds of Prior Park, she doesn’t stay that way for long. Right away they’re back to their murmured conversations, their in-jokes about the crew and about how Paul’s ridiculously loud car that announces his presence every morning must be over-compensation for  _something._

For the showstopper challenge this week they have to make a trio of double crust pies. They have to be unified by a central theme, look fit for a centrepiece, and include at least one sweet and one savoury pie. They have four and half hours in which to make this magic happen.

As soon as Mel and Sue give the word, Serena sets to baking. The recipe she’s using for the crust is a cream cheese pie crust. She found it in a recipe book years ago and uses it for every pie she makes, has never found a shortcrust pastry its equal. The cream cheese contains almost all the moisture needed for the crust and Serena likes that it takes away the guesswork of how much water to add. She makes it in a food processor, finds that the machine keeps the ingredients colder than mixing by hand, and makes it easy to not overwork the dough.

She’s got the dough divided into six and chilling in the fridge when Paul, Mary, and Sue come by to talk to her about the pies she’s chosen.

“The theme for my pies is booze,” she tells them plainly.

“Of course it is,” Paul says dryly and Serena laughs.

“Don’t worry Paul,” she says, “I’ll be careful not to overwhelm you. I’m making an armagnac apple and fig pie, steak and guinness pie, and peach brown sugar and bourbon pie.”

“Steak and guinness pie is not usually a double crust pie,” Mary says. “Have you had trouble with the moisture content of the filling?”

“I did at the start, yes,” Serena admits freely. “It took some work but I’m quite happy with where I’ve gotten it to. Don’t worry Mary, no soggy bottoms to be found.”

“I’d certainly hope not.”

They move on and Serena gets down to preparing her fillings. She starts with the meat first, dices her beef and tosses it in flour seasoned with salt and pepper, then puts it in a pot on medium high heat with a generous amount of butter and browns every side of the pieces. After they’re browned, she begins browning the other fillings of her pie: mushrooms, onions, and garlic. She pours in part of the stout, then adds the potatoes and carrots, cooks them for a few minutes before adding beef stock, the rest of the stout, worcestershire sauce, and thyme. She leaves it simmering and moves along to her other two fillings.

For the apple and fig pie, she chops up the apples and figs, puts them in a saucepan with sugar, corn-starch, cinnamon, and the armagnac. She cooks the filling over medium heat until the figs begin to break down, pulls it off to cool, and checks on the steak. She turns up the heat a bit, stirs the pot, and moves on. For the peach pie, she slices up her peaches, tosses them with corn-starch, brown sugar, bourbon, and a pinch of salt in a bowl, sets it aside. She checks her pastry in the fridge, feels it’s chilled enough to begin the next stage. She pulls out one of the pieces of dough and gets set to roll it out. She places the pastry between two pieces of cling film, explains to the waiting camera that she does this because it allows the pastry to roll out well without sticking to anything and without having to add flour.

When the pastry is rolled out, she lines her first pie plate with it and spreads out the peach filling inside, taking more care than she usually would to make sure the pieces are all uniformly laid out. She wants this pie to look beautiful when it’s cut through. She rolls out a second piece of pie crust, cuts it into strips with a fluted pastry cutter, likes the decorative edge the cutter gives, and then lays it out in a lattice. It’s delicate work, laying the strips of crust over and under each other, but the overall effect is worth it. She seals the edges, trims the excess, and puts in the oven.

For the fig and apple pie, she uses a regular pastry cutter, does a lattice crust on it as well and adds some decorative leaves around the edges. As soon as that’s done she places it on the second rack in the oven and checks on her meat again. It’s cooking down well, she cranks up the heat while stirring it constantly to get it just that bit thicker. When it’s ready she sets it aside and gets her next pie crust ready. She lines the pie plate with the crust, fills it with the stew, and sets about making her last crust. This one is the most challenging of all: a herringbone style lattice crust.

She’s brought a cheat sheet with her for this crust, lays it beside her on the counter, and sets to work. It involves laying down all the strips going one way and then folding them back at the centre point of the pie. When layering the strips in the other direction, she skips three, folds back three, skips three again. This pattern continues on and on until the entire pie is covered and the resulting pattern is a close lattice that looks exactly like herringbone. As she goes to egg wash the pie, Serena suddenly realises she hasn’t given the other two an egg wash of their own. She pulls them from the oven, quickly brushes them all over with egg wash, and then puts them back in the oven.

When the fruit pies are done baking, Serena sets them aside to rest and puts her last pie in the oven. She takes the chance to look at what everyone else is doing. Most have at least one pie out of the oven and Serena’s impressed by what she sees. She rests her feet, drinks some tea, and readies herself for the agonising wait for her last pie to be done.

When the crust is beautifully browned and the filling is bubbling, Serena pulls her pie from the oven. She’s happy with how it looks, at least from on top. The rest she’ll have to leave up to chance, there’s no way to tell if there’s undercooked pastry or—god forbid—a soggy bottom without cutting into the pie to look. She does get Mel to hold the pie up in the air so she can peer quickly at the bottom and it looks good, doesn’t look soggy or under baked from what she can see.

She places her pies on the metal pie stand she brought with her from home. Jason had come with her when she’d gone shopping for one, had picked out this one because he liked how symmetrical it was, how sturdy it looked, and she smiles thinking of her nephew as she places the pies on it. Peach on top, fig and apple in the centre, and the steak and guinness on the bottom. She’s used simple glass pie plates for all of them but she’s happy with how they look, sitting there. She places the stand at the end of her bench and waits for Mel and Sue to call out the end of the challenge.

The judging for this challenge is going to take a while, Serena knows that immediately. She wonders briefly if Mary and Paul eat anything else on days like today. She hopes not, seeing as they’re about to eat twenty seven slices of pie. Serena likes pie, would even go so far as to say she loves pie, but even for her that is a  _lot_ of pie. She has noted that the crew seem particularly excited about today’s challenge, she’s sure they’re all more than ready to help consume the utterly absurd amount of pie that’s been baked today.

There’s the usual break to get all the beauty shots of the pies before they’re cut into, and they have a quick interview as well to check in on how everyone’s feeling. And then it’s time for the judging.

First up is Ric, he’s gone for fairly simple pies, all with a regular top crust but decorated with little pastry shapes cut out to look like various root vegetables. The reason for those shapes are immediately clear: Ric’s chosen a root vegetable theme for his bakes. His first pie is a roasted beet and apple pie, it has a soggy bottom and Paul finds the flavour to be lacking, thinks the beet adds nothing but colour to the pie. His next is a turnip and caramelised onion pie, it looks good cutting through but the turkey is dry and the pastry is tough. Ric’s last pie, his sweet option, is a sliced sweet potato pie. Serena’s never heard of such a thing, is not really sure she likes the idea of sugary sweet potato, though it is striking to look at when Paul cuts a piece. The judges surprisingly both like the taste, but the pastry is once again overworked and underdone.

Next is Raf, and Serena can’t help but be amazed as he comes up to the front with his pies. All of the crusts have been made from cut out shapes layered on top of each other. The first looks like a huge flower, with petals layered around a circle in the centre. The second is a pile of leaves, and the third made of cut out flowers. As they look them over the judges comment as well, congratulate him on how beautiful they all look. Serena thinks back to biscuit week, to those delicately iced heart biscuits, it’s clear that Raf has a distinct talent when it comes to decoration. He describes his pies as the judges eat them: a turkey and cranberry pie, a cranberry sage pie, and a cranberry pear pie. All three are baked beautifully, the crusts lovely and tender and the only negative comment is Mary doesn’t think the cranberry sage flavour combination works, though Paul disagrees and says he loves it. Raf turns back to his bench with a big smile on his face and Serena thinks of how nice it will be for his kids to get to see their dad excel onscreen.

Next is Jac. She’s the only baker to have done two savoury pies and one sweet. Her pies look lovely, all with a regular crust but decorated with little tomatoes, the unifying theme for her pies. The first pie the judges taste is a tomato basil pie, the second a tomato, corn, and bacon pie, and the third a sweet green tomato pie. After he’s tried all three, Paul finally speaks up.

“I hate tomato in pie,” he says straight out and Serena wishes she had a better angle on Jac’s facial expression, knows she’s glaring him down.

“You’re welcome to your opinion,” Jac says and Serena wants to whoop with joy. Paul does admit, finally, that they’re all very well baked and well made, despite his own biases. Mary praises all three pies highly, finds them innovative, delicious, and beautifully well made.

Mo is up next, with a venison, juniper, rosemary, and bay pie, an apple and pear rosemary pie, and a black and blueberry rosemary pie. She’s got soggy bottoms on all three, but they’re flavourful and the pastry is tender, and they look beautiful as well, all three done with a twisting lattice top crust.

Then it’s Bernie, walking up with her three pies. Serena loves the style of them, she’s used a combination of thick and thin lattice strips that, when worked over and under each other, make the tops of her pies look like plaid. They’re unified by the theme of ginger: she’s made a peach ginger pie, a maple-ginger apple pie, and a ginger chicken pot pie. The chicken one could use more ginger, is the consensus, but other than that they’re baked perfectly and taste great and Serena feels awash with relief that, despite a really crummy showing in technical yesterday, Bernie seems to have done well enough to keep herself from going home.

Zosia does not do nearly so well. Her three pies—apple and pork, caramel apple, and apple and raspberry—are overbaked and the pastry’s tough. Mary doesn’t like the flavour of the caramel apple pie, finds it completely too sweet, and Paul notes that the pork in her apple and pork pie is dry and flavourless. Not a great result, overall, and Serena gives Zosia a sympathetic smile as she goes back to her bench.

Then it’s her turn. Serena moves up with her pie stand held firmly in her hands, is happy to note it’s as sturdy as Jason thought it would be. She watches, heart in her throat, as Paul cuts out the pieces of her pies. Mary comments on the pastry first, the cream cheese crust that Serena knew would come through for her, and Paul agrees that it’s a remarkably tender and delicious pastry. It works well, the judges agree, with the savoury pie as well. They also comment on the designs of all three pies, the herringbone on the steak and guinness pie in particular, congratulating the detail work she’s done. She manages to have hit the sweet spot on all three with the alcohol: enough for Mary, not too much for Paul. They praise the flavour of the fig, apple, and armagnac pie in particular and Serena can’t help but beam as she makes her way back to her bench. She catches Bernie’s eye as she goes, grins wider as Bernie gives her a split-second wink.

Dom’s the next up for judging. He brings up a banana hazelnut chocolate pie, a lamb and pine nut pie, and a sour cherry almond pie. The first is not a success, the judges think it tastes more like fake banana flavouring than actual banana and they don’t like the texture of it. But the other two are fairly well received. Overall he gets a decent balance of criticism (overworked pastry) and praise (good flavours, nicely baked).

Last, but certainly not least, is Morven. Her three pies are impressive to look at. She’s plaited pie dough for the top crusts before laying it into lines and lattices and it’s absolutely gorgeous. Her three pies are a raisin pie, a concord grape pie, and a cabernet sauvignon beef pie and Paul and Mary praise all three highly. Perfectly baked, phenomenal flavours, tender flaky pastry.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Paul tells her and Morven emits a little shriek before she manages to contain herself.

They walk outside to do interviews and allow the judges to deliberate. Take a bit of time to taste each other’s pies as well and praise their fellow bakers’ work.

“I for one like the tomatoes,” Serena says after trying all three of Jac’s pies. “Especially the green ones.”

“Me too,” Bernie agrees, at her elbow.

“Fuck Paul Hollywood,” Jac says darkly and Serena laughs. “I meet men like him at work all the time. Insufferable.”

“Who doesn’t?” Serena agrees. “If I had a penny for every douchebag in a boardroom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting…”

“What do you usually do with them?” Bernie asks Jac, “at work, I mean.” Jac smirks a little, raises one perfect eyebrow as she replies.

“I crush them.”

That’s the point at which Serena decides she really, truly likes Jac Naylor.

They move back into the tent for judging. Serena’s overjoyed to hear that Morven’s cinched Star Baker, smiles when she raises both hands in the air in jubilation, and is truly sad to hear that Ric’s going home. She’s enjoyed getting to know him, enjoyed watching him and Bernie go head to head when debating their current affairs topic du jour, enjoyed most of all when she and Bernie would team up to mock him mercilessly when he was too nice to a waitress or spent too long watching a woman walk down the street. She hugs him and says goodbye.

“Don’t get too complacent without us keeping you on your toes,” she tells him before kissing his cheek.

“Complacent?” he fires back, “I’m just looking forward to getting a word in edgewise!”

She laughs with him at that point, watches as he gives Bernie a firm handshake.

“Text or call me,” Bernie tells him, “whenever you need someone to remind you you’re not the smartest person in the room.” He laughs again at that, assures her he will.

Serena heads back to Holby with another week done and conquered. She’s made it through to the next week, all she can do now is prepare for it.


	9. Custard Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading guys and thanks to all the people who helped me out with this  
> I need to go do the homework that I've been avoiding in favour of this now!!

“You look exhausted,” Serena tells Bernie when she sees her Friday evening. “Long day?”

“Long week,” Bernie replies. She doesn't know how her life has been more busy not working than it was when she was pulling long hours in surgery. “I've been moving,” she explains.

“I don't envy you that,” Serena tells her. “I absolutely loathe moving.”

“Perils of locum work I’m afraid. It’s not usually too bad, but this position was a little more last minute than my last few so I had to find an apartment short notice and now I'm just knackered.”

“Rough,” Serena agrees. “When do you start the new placement?”

“Not till a week from Monday thank god. I've still got a bunch of stuff to move—you would not believe the amount of cooking things I've amassed just for this competition.”

“Oh I believe it.” Serena claps her on the shoulder and smiles, “cheer up all you have to worry about this weekend is not making a total arse of yourself in the tent.”

“Oh is that all?” Bernie's voice drips with facetiousness. Serena throws her head back and laughs. Bernie’s not sure she feels comforted.

The next morning Bernie goes for her run. She's driven out of bed less by the anticipation of clearing her head and more by the fact that she needs to get Serena her morning coffee and pastry. Somehow that's become as much a part of their weekend routine as late night bottles of shiraz. It makes for late to bed and early to rise but as Bernie wipes the sleep from her eyes she knows she wouldn't have it any other way.

She focuses on her breathing as she runs, tries to concentrate on the pattern of her feet hitting on the ground but keeps getting distracted by the prospect of seeing Serena. And not just any Serena but sleepy smiling early morning Serena. The Serena that Bernie very  _very_ privately refers to as ‘her’ Serena. She's never had this close of a friend before. It's nice. Bernie thinks that even if a friendship with Serena is the only thing she gets from Bake Off it'll all have been worth it. And she thinks they will remain friends even once Bake Off is done, has to believe that the closeness they share will continue on its own.

Hopefully Serena’s fully clothed this morning though, Bernie thinks. The last time she answered the door in nothing but a towel she almost gave Bernie a heart attack. Bernie’s not blind. She knows her friend is a very attractive woman, and she can’t pretend she wasn’t affected by the sight of her like that, so very close to naked, stray droplets of water running down her fair skin. Bernie’s pretty sure she was tachycardic by the time she made it back to her room.

Today Serena is fully clothed when Bernie arrives to give her her coffee and pastry and Bernie tells herself quite sternly that she’s not disappointed about that. She heads back to her room and concentrates on getting ready, putting on the clothes that Charlotte once again picked out for her. Heathered grey v-neck t-shirt, jeans, nubuck boots the colour of wheat. She’s not above shamelessly using her daughter for fashion advice, is well aware that Charlotte’s critical eye is more astute on these matters than her own will ever be. And Lottie has promised that she’ll start coming over week and helping Bernie pick out her clothes in person—a serious bonus of living in the same city again.

Everything seems to take longer than usual this morning, starting with the coach being late to leave the hotel and spiralling down from there. From makeup to interviews they get slowed down at every stage, and by the time they make it into the tent, start filming the first challenge, Bernie is thrumming with nervous energy. Every week is getting more and more serious, every week the stakes are getting higher. Bernie didn’t realise how seriously she was taking this, but the delays this morning bugged her more than she would’ve liked. She stands, tries not to fidget, listens as Mel and Sue announce the challenge. They have two and three-quarter hours to make a creamy baked flan. The judges want a beautiful clear caramel sitting above a creamy custard base. At the sound of Sue shouting ‘Bake!’ Bernie sets to work, grateful to finally be able to do something.

When Bernie first got the information for this week’s challenges, she had set about looking for recipes for flan. She’d never made a flan before, was only familiar with it in its original variation: sweet vanilla custard coated in a layer of caramel. She liked the classic version, but she wanted something a little different, a more complex flavour, and after quite a bit of trial and error found something she’s happy with.

She starts the signature challenge with the caramel, cooks sugar in a saucepan until it melts, then pours in a homemade pomegranate molasses she brought from home, stirs it together and watches it bubble, not touching it at all, careful not to let it crystallise. She pours the caramel into the bottom of a baking dish, tilts the dish to let the caramel evenly coat the bottom.

“Hullo Bernie,” Paul’s voice pulls her attention away and she looks up to see both him and Mary, standing at her workstation waiting to talk to her about her bake.

“Oh, hi,” she says.

“And what will you be making for us today?” Mary asks.

“I’m making a pomegranate ginger flan.”

“How will you be bringing those flavours in?” Paul asks.

“I’m using ginger in the custard itself, and then the caramel, which I’ve just made, has a pomegranate molasses in it.” She points to the jar of molasses as she’s talking and Mary picks it up and looks at it with interest.

“Did you make this yourself?”

“I did, yes, it’s simple, really, just time consuming to cook down the juice. I think it’s become a bit of an in-vogue ingredient recently. You see it a lot in food magazines and blogs and such. But really like pomegranate as a flavour and it’s a lot easier to work with when you can just add a couple of tablespoons of the molasses.”

“Is that your caramel there?” Paul points at the baking dish set on one end of the counter. Bernie nods her assent and both judges peer into the dish.

“What a lovely colour that pomegranate brings,” Mary says nicely. Paul just nods.

They thank her, move on, and Bernie moves to start the custard portion of her dish. She heats milk in a saucepan with fresh ginger and vanilla bean, once it’s simmered for about five minutes she removes it from the heat, strains the mixture, combines the flavoured milk with sugar and egg yolks. After testing a couple of variations, she’s gone with an all-yolk flan for a richer, more velvety texture. There’s a lot of debate on the subject of eggs in flan, and Bernie tried a number of different quantities of yolks and whites before landing on this. When everything’s combined, she pours the custard over the caramel in the baking dish, covers it in foil and sets about putting it in the oven.

She places the dish on some folded newspaper in a larger pan and places the whole lot in the oven, kneels in front of her oven and pours water into the pan, explains to the best of her abilities to the camera why she’s doing what she’s doing.

“It’s a bain-marie,” she says, “it ensures the flan bakes correctly. Without the water you run the risk of it cooking too quickly, which makes the flan crack and gives you a rubbery texture. It’s a holdover from when ovens didn’t keep a precise temperature, if the heat spiked the custard would curdle or break from the protein contracting as it gets too hot and forcing the liquid out. So with the water it can’t overcook because it can’t get any hotter than boiling. Some people think we don’t really need them anymore—because oven temperatures are so much more precise now—but,” she shrugs, “I don’t know, I feel safer using one.”

This challenge is agonising. Truly. The flans need somewhere in the region of an hour to bake and Bernie hates not being able to do anything in the meantime. All she can do is sit back and hope that everything goes okay inside the oven. She’s got no way of knowing.

She feels unsettled and anxious, finds herself looking towards Serena, doesn’t know why that’s her immediate instinct to calm herself. Serena looks over in her direction just as Bernie looks to her and she smiles widely as they make eye contact. Bernie offers a tight lipped smile in return, leans back against her workbench as Serena makes her way over to her.

“Bloody excruciating isn’t it?” She asks and Bernie lets out a short laugh.

“You can say that again.”

They’re near the centre of the tent and they look over the group of bakers about them. Zosia and Jac are sitting on Jac’s bench in the back, heads bowed towards each other, deep in conversation. Mo, Morven, Dom, and Raf all end up moving towards the centre, joining Bernie and Serena where they stand.

“Flans all going okay there?” Mo asks.

“How the hell are we supposed to know?” Serena drawls and they laugh.

“Fair enough,” Raf says. “Guess it’s all down to blind faith now.”

“I just hate not being able to do anything,” Dom says. “It’s easier when your hands are busy, you know?”

“If we think waiting for them to bake is bad, might I remind you that we won’t even know the results of the bake until this evening?” Bernie can’t help but add. “This bake’s about 80% just sitting around and hoping desperately.”

“Sadists, the lot of them,” Serena says and the group laughs.

“Having fun?” Sue asks as she and Mel come up to the group.

“Loads,” Dom snarks.

They pass the rest of the time waiting for the flans to bake grouped together, enjoying Mel and Sue’s antics as they fight over scrapers and bowls of custard remnants and decide to race from one side of the tent to the other, balancing eggs on spoons, a game which unsurprisingly doesn’t go very well. Looking around, Bernie sees Paul and Mary at the end of the tent watching telly—Broadchurch she later learns from Mel—and generally ignoring the antics of both bakers and presenters.

A few of the bakers made extra decorations with some of their caramel, Bernie learns, little bits of spun sugar to adorn the finished products but even sugar work couldn’t keep them busy for too long. They disperse back to their ovens after not too long, sit and lay on the floor of the tent and gaze through the glass at their creations.

When her timer sounds, Bernie reaches in and taps the pan, observes the wobble of the flan and judges it baked. She removes it from the oven and looks at it critically. It looks a good colour, hasn’t split, but as she mentioned she won’t know the result for hours. Because a flan needs so long to rest, this challenge is being baked now but will be rested for hours before they can tip them out and serve them to the judges. When Mel calls out the end of the challenge, Bernie, along with everyone else, brings her pan to the back of the room where Faenia explains to them all that the flans will be left on the bench to cool for thirty minutes, then all placed in the refrigerator at the same time. After the technical, they’ll have the chance to come retrieve them and turn them out in preparation for judging.

Bernie doesn’t like having to wait for the judging on this one, it means they’ll be heading into the afternoon without a sense of how they’ve done in the morning. It gives her the sense in the technical of being even more in the dark than usual.

* * *

After interviews and extra filming and a quick lunch, they head back into the tent for the technical, stand at their stations as Mel and Sue and Paul and Mary make their way in.

“Paul, Mary, you’re not welcome here for this challenge,” Sue says. “We hate to see you go but Paul, you know I love to see you walk away so put a bit of an extra sway in those hips just for me.”

The judges leave, Paul with a more exasperated roll of his eyes than usual, and Mel gets down to explaining the challenge.

“Today we’re looking for you to make a cremeschnitte,” she says.

Cremeschnitte. That’s a word she’s never heard before, not that that’s a surprise. Serena wonders briefly just what Paul and Mary do to find these challenges, imagines Paul in the middle of the night googling ‘recipes no one in their right mind would know about’, snorts a little and forces herself to pay attention to the rest of the instructions.

The recipe starts with directions to make puff pastry. It’s calling for full puff and with the time she’s got Serena’s going to have to move quickly to get it done in time. She starts mixing together the flour, salt, and water. Beats the butter into a block, wraps the dough around the butter, gives it two turns (letter folds, not book), and puts it in the freezer to accelerate the chilling process.

She reads the rest of the recipe over as the pastry chills. It’s interesting, almost like a Napoleon when you get down to it. A layer of pastry, covered with a layer of crème pâtissière, then a layer of whipped double cream, and finished off with a final layer of pasty.

She pulls the pastry dough out of the freezer, gives it another couple of turns, and curses the heat of the day as she works. The sun is beating down on the tent and as a result giving her pastry the requisite turns before the butter melts out of the dough is a serious challenge.

Even without the challenge of the heat, it would be tough to get the pieces baked, cooled, and assembled in time. This is an extra complication she doesn’t need. Because of the time constraints, Serena needs to start her crème pat right away. She brings milk, seasoned with a bit of vanilla extract, to a boil, and while it’s heating she whisks together egg yolks and sugar in a bowl, adds in her flour and corn-starch and sets it aside. She hopes she’s remembering the exact steps for a crème pat correctly: of course Paul’s recipe doesn’t tell them what exactly to do. Once she’s scalded the milk, she pours it over her egg mixture, mixes everything together and places it back in the pot, warming it over medium heat, whisking constantly until it’s thickened considerably.

The stacking of the ingredients calls, in her opinion, for a thick and robust crème pat, so she cooks it a little longer than she usually would. When she’s happy with the mixture, she puts it in a large bowl, covers it and places it in the fridge. It’s past time for the last couple of turns on her dough. When that’s done, she preheats her oven and prepares some baking trays. She gives the dough just ten minutes in the freezer before pulling it out and rolling it out.

Sue calls out that the challenge is halfway done and Serena swears. She’s going to be tight, really tight, on time today. She docks the pastry all over with a fork, puts both trays in the oven, sets her timer for fifteen minutes. For the whipped cream, she places the bowl and whisk for her stand mixer in the freezer for a few minutes—yet another precaution against the heat of the day.

She whips the cream with a bit of sugar—it’s not specified in the recipe but Serena feels it’s a given—whips it firmer than she would usually to ensure it will hold its shape. She gives her puff pastry a couple more minutes in the oven, then pulls it out. It doesn’t look quite as good as she’d like but it’s baked and it’ll have to do.

Sue comes by as Serena is wafting a spare cookie sheet over top of her pastry sheets, trying to cool them as quickly as possible. The last thing Serena needs is to try to assemble the cremeschnitte while the pastry’s still warm and have the fillings leak out into a sticky puddle. Sue is kind enough to stop and pick up a kitchen towel, begin whipping it about to cool the other sheet of pastry.

“Thanks,” Serena says.

“Think nothing of it,” Sue replies, “you know with all this delicious food I have to keep myself fit somehow.”

“Right. And wafting about a towel makes up for the fact that I saw you eat nine slices of pie last week?”

“Oh yes. Definitely, best fitness regime in the world.” She leans towards Serena and winks, “I’d flex but I’d hate to rip this jacket.”

Once the pastry sheets are cool to the touch, Serena pulls her fillings from the fridge and sets about arranging the layers. The recipe doesn’t specify how thick the layers of crème pat or whipped cream should be, so Serena’s forced to go with instinct. She makes both layers even and quite thick. Thinks that if she were to eat such a treat she wouldn’t want to feel like there was a lack of substance in the creamy centre. Serena works as quickly as she can, spreading the creme pat thickly along the pastry base.

“Five minutes bakers!” Sue calls out from near the front of the tent. “Five minutes and we’ll find out who’s the creme de la cremeschnitte.”

Serena doesn’t even have a chance to groan at the awful play on words, concentrates instead on trying to spread on her layer of cream as quickly and neatly as possible. Speed wins out. She drops her second layer of pastry on top, grabs a knife, says a little prayer and taps the knife down with force and speed to break through the pastry without pushing the filling out of the pastry, an effort that proves mostly successful. She’s doing her last cut as Mel calls out the end of the challenge.

“That’s it bakers we’re done. Please bring up your bakes and place them behind the photo of yourself on the gingham altar.”

Serena pushes her pieces of cremeschnitte onto the plain plate provided and walks up to the front of the tent with everyone else. She takes the chance to look about at the other bakes on offer. She feels a twinge of sympathy for some, obviously less fortunate than she was. In particular, Morven’s look a right mess, oozing filling onto the plate.

It’s tough, being at this point in the competition. They’re half-way through and losing people every week. Good people, who deserve to be there just as much as anyone. Serena honestly likes every one of them—even the slightly acerbic Jac. How does one juggle ambition with the desire to see everyone do well? She cannot deny the frisson of excitement she feels when she succeeds, when she does better than her compatriots, but she feels bad about it too. It’s a competition, of course, perhaps the problem is Serena didn’t expect to like her competitors quite this much. Perhaps it would be easier if she were still the same woman she’d been when she started at Holby five years ago, ruthless and power-hungry. Then again, that Serena would’ve still been vying hard for the position of CEO and never would’ve taken the time away from work to devote herself to Bake Off.

Paul and Mary come back in go through the bakes, list all the faults and failures they find. There are many, the heat of the day made for a lot of underwhelming pastry and the judges pick apart everything from the pastry to the texture of the fillings.

“In eighth place is this one.” Mary says after they’ve deliberated for a while. Morven shamefully raises her hand. “The pastry was just too warm when it was assembled. As well, the creme patisserie has curdled.”

“In seventh place,” Paul says, “is this one.” He steps up to Bernie’s sloppy cremeschnitte disaster and she raises her hand with a respectful nod of her head, her mouth in a hard line. “The pastry has almost no lamination,” Paul explains, “and when the cremeschnitte was cut all the filling was pushed out.” Serena feels badly for Bernie, is a little shocked at the strength of her devastation at her bad result. She wants to do well herself of course, knows this is a competition and all, but oh she  _so_ wants Bernie to do well too.

Zosia gets sixth, Dom fifth, and Mo fourth. Serena is happily surprised to get third place, she doesn’t think hers looks much better than the rest but that’s how this all goes. The judges decree according to their wisdom. Next is Raf in second place, and in first place is Jac with an altogether impeccable looking cremeschnitte. Serena wonders if she’s made it before, or perhaps if it’s just her trademark sharp clean style and obvious technical know-how coming through.

* * *

There’s a short break after the judging of the technical in which they’re all herded outside for some interviews. Bernie keeps her chin up during hers, spouts off some nonsense about wanting to do well and trying harder and whatnot. There’s not much to say, really, and Bernie tries to keep her responses as brief as possible. Then it’s right back into the tent to have their flans judged.

They head to the back of the room and retrieve their flans, head to their benches to turn them out. She wonders briefly how they’ll be airing this one, whether the show will place the judging for the signature before the technical even if, for them, it’s happening after. She concentrates on turning out her flan instead of worrying about post-production minutiae.

Bernie wants to shout in frustration as her flan won’t slide out of the pan. She’s never had this problem in practice but for some bloody useless reason her flan’s chosen here and now to give her trouble. She runs her knife around the fluted sides of the baking dish, doesn’t want to heat it up because it might ruin the consistency. She taps the bottom of the pan and finally  _finally_ it slides out. The flan part at least. Only some of the caramel has come with it and when Bernie flips the pan over she can see the rest of the caramel stuck on the bottom. She does her best to scrape it out, manages to get some of the caramel onto the top of her flan, messy though it may be, by the time Mel announces that they’re done.

Mo’s first tonight, and it is night by the time they get to this judging. The sun is low in the sky and Bernie can feel her stomach grumbling—they haven’t had a break for supper.

“Today I’ve made a chocolate mint crème caramel,” Mo tells the judges, clasps her hands behind her as Paul and Mary each take a bite. They pronounce the flan to be creamy and delicious. Raf’s next, he has also chosen to go with a chocolate variation with his dark chocolate and salted caramel flan. He gets resounding praise from both judges on all fronts. Morven doesn’t do nearly as well, unfortunately. Her rosewater flan with passionfruit caramel is an un-set mess on the plate and Paul lambasts the rosewater flavour for being soapy and unappetizing. Serena’s up next and Bernie’s happy to see her impress with her coffee creme caramel. It certainly looks delicious where it’s set on the plate, garnished with spun sugar and coffee beans

Dom’s peach flan gets middling reviews (good on bake and texture, but bland when it comes to the flavours). Both Jac and Zosia chose to go with the classic creme caramel for their bakes and both do quite well with the judges, Jac earning extra praise for the sugar work she’s made to decorate the top of her dish.

And then, finally, they come to Bernie. She grimaces a little as Mary and Paul look down at her pitiful excuse for a flan. She takes their criticism with a sharp nod of her head, is grateful that at the very least the flavour and texture of her flan are still good. She thanks them as they leave, sighs deeply as soon as they’ve left. The group leaves to go back to Bath not long after and Bernie does her best to avoid Serena, she doesn’t sit beside her on the bus and she ducks away from the group and makes her way up to her room alone as they get to the hotel. Still, Serena is not to be deterred so lightly. Bernie really shouldn’t be surprised, Serena is nothing if not tenacious. She cracks open the door at Serena’s knock, an excuse about a headache or stomach pains on the tip of her tongue. The words die as soon as she sees Serena’s face. She’s smiling at Bernie with a wicked glint in her eye, holding up a bottle of Shiraz.

“I-I don’t know if I’m in the mood tonight,” she tells her, stuck between wanting to be alone and being quickly swayed by Serena’s smile.

“How about a walk then? Get some fresh air?” Bernie can’t say no to that, so she grabs her coat and follows Serena’s lead out of the hotel. They wander along aimlessly as the last shreds of sunlight leave the sky, threading through winding streets. The buildings and street lamps light up and Bernie can’t help but think how beautiful everything is, how beautiful Serena looks amidst it all.

“C’mon, let’s go this way,” Serena says at one point, veering sharply to the right and grabbing Bernie’s hand to ensure she follows. She doesn’t let go of her hand and Bernie allows Serena to interlock their fingers together, ignores the frisson of excitement that courses through her at the warm feeling of Serena’s hand in her own. It feels good, it feels right. Bernie never would’ve imagined that holding a friend’s hand could feel so nice but she thinks that it’s normal isn’t it? There’s loads of books and movies and the like with friends holding hands. Maybe because it feels like this.

They end up in a park, have a seat on one of the benches and Bernie can’t help the twinge of sadness when Serena pulls her hand away to pull out the bottle of Shiraz she had earlier and offer it to Bernie.

“Shall we?” Serena asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Have you been carrying that with you this whole time?” Bernie asks.

“Of course! You didn’t think I was going to let this walk detract from important evening activities did you?”

“No,” Bernie laughs, “I guess not. Do you have carry a corkscrew around with you too?”

“It’s a twist top, actually,” Serena informs her with glee, “the joy of Australian shiraz.”

She offers the bottle to Bernie who dutifully takes a swig straight from the bottle and hands it back.

“It’s crazy how much we care about this,” Bernie says after a few moments of silence, “isn’t it? I mean, I got all torn up over a flan earlier—a flan!”

“Absolutely mad what we get ourselves into, isn’t it?” Serena says. “God I don’t think I ever want to care this much about bakes and oven temperatures and all that ever again.”

“Mmm,” Bernie hums in agreement. “It’ll be nice to have a break from it when it’s all over.”

“I’m just grateful I gave up all my deputy CEO business long before this started. It is hard enough balancing clinical lead responsibilities with these weekends. I am drowning in paperwork, let me tell you.”

“Charts for days,” Bernie says sympathetically, “I know the feeling.”

“Hey, you’re in the midst of two weeks off, you don’t get to complain too much!”   
“Ha! Maybe not, but I do have to start somewhere new after that.”

“Ugh,” Serena wrinkles her nose, “I hate starting a new job. How do you do it all the time?”

“Oh, well. It’s, it’s not too bad. You get used to it.”

“Easier to never stay too long in one place so you can’t miss it eh? Can’t miss friendships you never made?”

Bernie looks at Serena sharply. How is it that this woman she barely knows is apparently effortlessly capable of seeing into Bernie’s very soul?

“Um, well,” it’s all she can say. Serena shoots her a soft smile, lays a warm hand on Bernie’s thigh.

“I hope that somewhere in your travels you manage to find a home.”

It’s such a sweet sentiment, and so earnestly said. All Bernie can do is suck in a breath, lay her hand over Serena’s and squeeze it tight.

They stay on the park bench until well after the wine bottle is empty, stay out late enough that Bernie really regrets it when she wakes up for her run the next morning. She lays in bed for a moment, considers skipping it. But the knowledge that she’ll need the time to centre herself before the trials of the day gets her standing and changing into her running clothes. (The prospect of seeing Serena and that perfect gorgeous morning smile has nothing to do with her reasoning, of course).

As she runs she thinks about the day ahead of her, thinks about her bakes, thinks about what Serena had said last night as they made it back to their rooms.

“Hey,” Serena’s voice had made Bernie stop, turn back around, “you’d better do well tomorrow. You’re my best friend in that tent, you’d better still be there next week.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bernie had replied, pursed her lips over a triumphant smile when she heard Serena’s laugh.

By the time she’s on the coach beside Serena, headed to the competition, Bernie is feelings cautiously—  _cautiously_ —optimistic about the day. She’s practiced this bake a lot and it’s turned out well every time. She manages to keep her optimism up through all the pattering about of the morning, right until she’s standing in the tent in front of her workbench listening to Mel and Sue announce the challenge.

“Bakers, good morning!” Mel begins. “Today we are asking you to make forty-eight doughnuts.”

“They can be krofne, or zeppole, or sufganiah, or bombolonas, or boston cream,” Sue lists off with obvious glee. “But they must be two different flavours, filled with custard, and the doughnuts must be fried.”

“We are looking for impressive, beautiful doughnuts: this is a showstopper after all. They should all be of similar size, shape, and uniform in bake,” Mel finishes off.

“You have four hours. On your marks”

“Get set”

“Bake!”

Bernie had to adapt her regular doughnut recipe for this competition—her stand-by requires the dough to spend six to twelve hours in the fridge. The method she’s gone with uses a warm proof instead. She sets to work, proofing yeast in milk, then adding in flour, sugar, salt, and eggs. After the dough has come together, she adds in the butter a couple of pieces at a time and continues to knead the dough until it’s smooth and still a bit sticky, places it in the proofing drawer and starts on the second batch. This one’s much the same, but with cocoa powder and extra sugar in the dough. A chocolate dough is tricky, and the colour will make it tough to tell when it’s baked, but she thinks the flavour trade-off is worth it. She’s kneading the butter into that dough when the judges come up to speak with her.

“Morning Bernie,” Paul greets her. “What will you be delighting us with today?”

“Today I am making sugar doughnuts filled with lime curd, and chocolate doughnuts with coffee custard.”

“And this is the dough for the chocolate doughnuts?” Mary clarifies.

“It is, yup.”

“Have you had trouble telling when the doughnuts are baked?” Paul asks, “with the dark colour of the dough?”

“I haven’t. It is a risk, of course, but I’m fairly confident I’ve conquered it.”

“Confidence is good. As long as you're not overconfident,” he looks at her shrewdly after he says it but they’re five weeks in and Bernie’s used to Paul’s spirit-squashing antics by now.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Bernie says, confident enough in her own abilities that she sees no reason for a pissing match with one of the judges.

“That’s right, don’t let him scare you,” Mary tells her, patting her hand. “Just stick to everything like you’ve practiced.”

She finishes up with the chocolate dough, gets it in the proofing drawer and moves on to preparing her fillings. The lime curd is next—and she did have to double check when submitting her recipes that a curd counts as a custard for this challenge. She works quickly, at one point hovering over two pans at once as she multitasks the curd and the coffee custard. Thankfully years in surgery have taught her hands to be able to do two different things at once and her custards go off without a hitch. She gets them made and cooling in the fridge in record time.

“You know,” she says to Mel who’s hanging about the bench trying to be surreptitious about stealing the spatula Bernie had been using for the coffee custard, “I really like these cutters—you can have that by the way, I’m done with it—but these,” Bernie holds up the metal round. “I always just use a glass at home, this is much better.”

“I’m fairly certain they’d notice if you stole that,” Mel replies, mouth half-full of plastic and custard.

“You think so?”

“Mmhmmm.”

“Shame.”

Once all the doughnuts have been cut out they need to proof again, and Bernie uses the time to prepare for the next step. They were given an option, when it came to making their doughnuts, between an automatic deep fryer and the old fashioned way: that is, a pot, a jug of oil, and a deep fry thermometer. Bernie has opted for the latter. She’s used to making do with less, used to running her kitchen on the bare minimum, and honestly sometimes all the gadgets they’re given in the tent just confuse her. So she sticks with what she knows, pours the oil into the pot, and gets started.

She gets the oil up to about 190C and puts the first few of her doughnuts in. They puff up nicely in the oil, browning quickly, and she gives each one about 30 seconds a side. It’s quick work, moving them into the pot, flipping them, and then pulling them out to go on a cooling rack but it goes fairly smoothly. For the chocolate doughnuts, she cannot rely on colour to tell when they should be flipped, has to abide by timing and hope it’s right.

It’s a rush in the tent, it always is, while her doughnuts cool she makes the ganaches for the tops of the chocolate donuts (one batch each of dark and white chocolate) and candies lime peel to grace the tops of her lime curd doughnuts. And then, finally, she sets to work filling the doughnuts. It’s not particularly challenging work—poke a hole in the doughnut, put the tip of the piping bag in that hole, pipe the doughnut full of custard, repeat—but it is tedious and time consuming. And, of course, when baking for Bake Off she can’t afford to be as messy as she’d be at home. Once filled, she gets to decorating, powdering the lime curd doughnuts with sugar and topping them with curlicues of candied lime peel, and dipping the chocolate doughnuts first in the dark chocolate ganache before piping dots of white chocolate ganache on top. She’s not an artistic person, really, so she hopes her designs look fetching enough. She’s only halfway through piping the white chocolate ganache when Sue calls out the five minute warning, she goes as quickly as she can to finish the rest.

She does manage to get them all done. Barely. Has her doughnuts set out on the two-tier serving platter just in time and finds herself having to wipe sweat from her brow as she steps away. There’s a break as usual before judging, time enough for them to all get interviewed and have a quick run to the loo, and then it’s back inside to face the music. Bernie knows she did poorly yesterday, is starkly aware of how easily she could be out of the competition. If her doughnuts didn’t turn out as well as she thinks they probably did then this will be it for her. The thought troubles her more than expected. She’s always been competitive to be fair, has always strived to be the best, but that was in surgery, caring so deeply about doing well at baking is a departure for sure.

She waits patiently while Jac brings her doughnuts up for judging. They’re beautiful to behold, truly, decorated with the simple elegant flair Bernie has begun to expect from Jac. The first kind are maple glazed and filled, the second filled with a raspberry custard and topped with a couple crisscrossed lines of white chocolate ganache. Alas for Jac, who’s done well all weekend Bernie thinks, the raspberry ones are raw inside. Next is Mo with spiced pear custard filled doughnuts and blueberry jam and vanilla custard filled doughnuts on offer. Mary muses on how clever it is to fill a doughnut with both jam and custard, so one doesn’t have to choose. Paul disagrees, feels she should have picked one, and with that Mo’s headed back to her bench and it’s Bernie’s time to go up. Thankfully—and the breadth of her relief is truly immense—both her lime custard filled doughnuts and coffee custard filled chocolate doughnuts are met with praise. In design and taste, Paul and Mary judge them to be very good, though the bake is not quite as even as they’d like, and Bernie heads back to her bench feeling much more confident than she had just moments before.

Dom’s next, his strawberry custard and pumpkin cream doughnuts are met with high praise from both judges. His flavours exquisite, his doughnuts perfectly baked, the decorations elegant and artistic, and his gleeful smile as he heads back to his station is well-deserved indeed. Zosia goes next, with hazelnut chocolate custard and coconut custard doughnuts. The judges find them too simple. They want something more impressive for a showstopper. And to Zosia’s disappointment they find coconut custard has split.

Morven does even worse. Her peanut butter custard chocolate doughnuts have caught, and the filling for her cream cheese custard filled red velvet doughnuts has leaked out almost entirely into a sticky mess on the plate—the result of trying to fill the doughnuts while they were still much too hot. Bernie is impressed at her composure as she heads back to her bench. Morven keeps her head high and her face impassive, a tough feat after such a rough judging, especially at her age.

Next is Raf, with two sets of sugar covered doughnuts, one type filled with chocolate custard, the other meyer lemon. The main criticism he receives is that they’re too simple, Paul starkly accuses him of playing it safe. And though they taste good, the judges make it clear that they want him to move out of his comfort zone. And last of all Serena. Her first doughnuts are filled with dark chocolate and malt custard. The second feature blood orange flavoured dough and are filled with moscato zabaglione. Of course, Bernie thinks, of course Serena would find a way to get wine into this challenge as well. They both look very good and Bernie’s glad to see the judges find them delicious and well baked. She gives Serena a surreptitious thumbs up as she makes her way back to her station.

After judging it’s more interviews, more sitting about, and a welcome chance to try everyone else’s doughnuts—Bernie especially enjoys Mo’s blueberry jam and vanilla custard ones. It’s a good long wait before they’re called back into the tent to hear the judge’s decisions.

Bernie gets sat at the end stool, beside Dom, and waits with considerable anticipation of the decisions. Despite having done fairly well in the showstopper, she’s all too aware that her other bakes have put her in danger of going home.

“I’ve got the good job this week,” Mel tells them. “I get to announce Star Baker. Star Baker this week is someone who makes a lovely fruity flan and an absolutely smashing couple of custard filled doughnuts. Congratulations Dom! You’re Star Baker.”

“Congrats,” Bernie whispers as everyone claps enthusiastically. He’s grinning wide, obviously incredibly chuffed, just as he should be.

“Which means,” Sue says as the applause dies down, “that I have the worse job this week. We can’t take all of you with us—as much as we’d like to—and I have to announce who’s going home. The person who won’t be joining us next week is,” she pauses for effect, “Morven.”

They're parting ways that night when Serena comes up beside Bernie, nudges her gently with her shoulder.

“Glad to see you're still in it.”

“Thanks,” Bernie says, gives Serena the briefest of smiles. “Me too.”

“Good luck with the rest of the move Bernie. And enjoy your week off.” Serena walks off and Bernie finds herself watching her go, eyes captured by the grace in her steps, the swing of her hips.

“Oi Bernie!” her attention is pulled away by Dom shouting her name.

“Yes,” she spins about quickly enough that her hair hits her cheek.

“Can you give me a lift? I'm really not feelin’ the train today.”

“I guess I can't say no to the Star Baker can I?”

“Exactly. Oh I'm so glad I can already use my position to my own advantage.”

“C’mon,” she says with a laugh. She can't help but find Dom’s antics amusing. “Your chariot awaits.”


	10. Pastry Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everybody happy friday!  
> I did want to mention, if you're big on the immersive experience the gbbo soundtrack is on spotify. I listen to it sometimes while writing cause it makes me feel like it's really happening.  
> thanks to everyone for reading and a huge thank you to those who take the time to comment! it very much help me to not feel like I'm just shouting baking facts into the void.  
> have a great weekend!! I'll be spending mine baking because my doctor cleared me for things like lifting my flour bins!

Bernie deeply enjoys her second week off. She gets the moving done by Tuesday—not that there was that much to move. Just clothes and baking supplies and a box of current medical journals. She takes a few days to putter about, practice for the upcoming weekend of baking and even gets to see both her children at once. She takes them out, treats them to dinner at a posh restaurant and can't help but muse on how lucky she is as she sips on a glass of overpriced riesling. How easy it would've been to not smooth things over with Cameron and Charlotte, how easy it would've been to just not call, not have the tough conversations, not make the effort. But she didn’t. She put the effort in and did the tough things and she is oh so glad she did. She does her best to tell them this, wants to look across the table and say how much she loves them, how grateful she is to be a part of their lives, how proud of the both of them she is.

“It's really nice to see both of you at once like this,” she says instead. The way they smile, the way Charlotte reaches over to squeeze her hand, makes her hopeful that they know what she truly meant.

Friday morning dawns with brilliant sun and scorching heat and the weather forecast calls for more of the same all weekend. Not what Bernie was hoping for for pastry week. She lies about in bed for longer than usual before dragging herself out to go for a run. She's been more physically restless recently—perhaps an effect of the heightened anxiety from the competition—whereas before she was only running the occasional day or two during the week, for the past few she’s headed out every morning. It's good for her, anyway, especially considering the sheer amount of baked goods she's been eating recently.

After her run she takes a shower, decides to spend her morning reading through The Culinary Institute of America’s  _Baking and Pastry._ It’s a hefty tome filled with everything pastry related. A bit like studying for an exam, really, except exams were always predictable and conquerable. Bake Off feels considerably more like a panicked shot in the dark. She drives down to Bath a bit earlier than necessary, likes how much shorter the drive is now that she’s coming from Holby, spends some time wandering about the city and taking in the sights. While she waits for the other contestants to arrive.

* * *

Pastry week. Serena’s been looking forward to this week all competition with a mix of excitement and apprehension. She absolutely loves pastry, it’s delicate and finicky and hard to work with but in spite—or perhaps because—of this, she finds it incredibly satisfying. Still, even with the years of practice she’s had, sometimes her pastries just don’t work out. There are so many variables that come into play, not least of all heat. And by all accounts this weekend is going to be one of the hottest of the year. Of course.

She gets to Bath a bit early, for once they actually had a slow Friday on AAU. Once she’s checked in to the hotel and put her things in her room, she heads back down to the foyer, thinks she might go for a walk and grab a coffee, and runs—quite literally—into Bernie.

It’s Bernie who takes the corner much too quickly, barrelling into Serena. Serena reaches out on instinct and grabs at Bernie’s arms to steady herself, is about to unleash a diatribe on the person who just almost bowled her right over when she realises who it is.

“Sorry,” Bernie says.

“No harm done,” Serena tells her, still holding onto her arms. She can feel Bernie’s muscles under her shirt and  _wow._ She wonders if Bernie works out. She knows about the running of course, but this feels more like the kind of muscles you get from gyms or exercise classes, real, impressive muscles. And why is she suddenly so taken with Bernie’s muscles? Probably just because she knows she’ll never have the motivation to have some of her own. Gyms are ghastly. She’d much rather stay home and actually enjoy herself. Though if it gave her an arse like Bernie’s it might just be worth it...

“You alright there?” Bernie asks, looking through her fringe at Serena, those big brown eyes filled with worry, and Serena realises she’s still holding onto her.

“Oh yes,” she steps back and drops her arms. “Yes. Fine, thank you. Where were you going in such a hurry there?”

“Nowhere, really,” Bernie says with a little chuckle. “You’re here early.”

“I could say the same about you,” Serena replies.

“Ah but I wasn’t working this week which you know. You skiving off work Ms. Campbell?”

“Hardly,” Serena says serenely. “I don’t think department heads are able to skive. Much more a last minute schedule tweak, wouldn’t you agree?”

“If you say so,” Bernie’s smile is playful and Serena smiles right back. “Any plans for the rest of your afternoon?”

“I was thinking of going in search of a coffee. Other than that, not really.”

“You know I know of a place not far from here that makes a mean latte.”

“Really?” Serena puts on an air of complete surprise. “Could it be they also make a pain au chocolat to die for?”

“I’ve heard so, but however could I know?”

It’s stupid really, the exchange, the furtive little smiles they’re sharing, like it’s some big secret they’re talking about. But it feels special, feels tinged with the same air that marks their early morning encounters and it’s that that keeps Serena smiling right back at Bernie.

“Well Ms. Wolfe, would you care to lead the way?”

“I’d love to.”

Serena thinks for a moment that Bernie might offer her her arm (of course she doesn’t, that would be completely daft) but the thought pervades her mind, the whole walk to the cafe she thinks about how nice it would be to walk with her arm tucked up against Bernie’s side. Irrational, really, but girlfriends hold hands all the time don’t they? It’s not at all like it would be if Serena were to hold hands with a male friend; it’s different. Plus, she thinks of last week, she’s already held Bernie’s hand while walking around this city and that wasn’t weird at all. It was just… nice.

Coffee turns into drinks at a nearby wine bar, which turns into dinner at a lovely little bistro and yet more wine. They eat on their own, just the two of them, instead of meeting up with everyone else who’ve no doubt made their way into town by that point. Serena tells herself it’s easier, they’re already out, but at the back of her mind she thinks that maybe she just doesn’t want to end her time with Bernie.

What is it about this woman that draws her in so? That makes her feel like they’re the only two people in the world when they spend time together? She’s felt it time and time again, and it’s not like Bernie is some incredible conversationalist (in fact, she often stumbles over her words, pauses awkwardly, spaces words slowly between pauses and fillers) or that she’s talking about wildly riveting topics. But from telling stories about her children to describing the apartment she’s just moved into—at Serena’s behest—Serena feels she could listen to her forever.

She has noticed that the more they talk, and the more they talk alone, the more Serena has gotten to hear about Bernie’s life. Not just the big important things but the little stories, the ones about her time in the RAMC, inconsequential moments from her children's’ youth, even stories of Alex, the woman Bernie fell in love with. Serena gets the sense quite often that Bernie’s never told these stories to anyone else before.

Serena does her best to respond in turn. She opens up more than she usually would, tells little tales of no consequence that turn special in an instant because Bernie is the first person to whom she’s told them. It adds to the sense that their conversations are something to be cherished.

They stay out much too late, head back to the hotel and joke about how tired they’ll be in the morning. It happens every week by this point, the staying up too late, the waking up exhausted; it’s always worth it.

The next morning Serena is very grateful for the fortifying effects of lattes and pastries.

“Bakers! Good morning! Today we are asking you to make pastry viennoiseries. Yes for anyone who missed that that was  _viennoiseries,_ ” Mel over-enunciates each syllable of the word.

“We are looking for twenty four viennoiseries, of two different varieties. So twelve of each,” Sue takes over. “They must be both yeasted and laminated, sort of like fungi between two thin sheets of plastic.”

“You will have four hours in which to bake your viennoiseries.”

“On your marks,”

“Get set”

“Bake!” Sue’s crow is growing more and more enthusiastic with each passing week, Serena thinks to herself as she sets to work. She starts off by proofing yeast in two separate bowls. Viennoiseries, at least the classic ones as far as Serena’s aware, always use a yeasted dough. For pastries like they’re making today the initial dough includes a slight amount of butter (along with milk, sugar, flour, and salt of course), but most of the butter is put in a block, incorporated through successive turns just like in classic puff pastry. The combination of lamination and yeast leavened dough makes for unparalleled flakiness—if done correctly. She’s kneading her first batch of dough when the judges make their way round to her.

“I am making a salted caramel pecan kouign-amann and pain au chocolat,” she tells them.

“How long do you let your dough proof for?” Paul asks.

“I’ll proof the dough for about an hour, give it a fifteen minutes to chill in the fridge, and then make my first turn.”

“You chill it before you roll it out?” he clarifies.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“You run the risk of melting the butter otherwise,” Serena explains, though she’s sure Paul’s just putting her through her paces, “especially with a proofing drawer like we use here, and on a blasted hot day like today, if your dough’s too warm when you wrap it around your block of butter the butter can melt and you can say goodbye right then and there to any hope of good lamination.”

“You certainly sound like you’ve got it figured out,” Mary says. “We’ll leave you to it.”

Serena rolls the dough into a ball, puts it in a greased mixing bowl, covers it in plastic, and pops it into the proofing drawer, then moves onto kneading her second batch. Once both are proofing away, she starts making her butter blocks—pounding out pieces of butter into the appropriate size, then wrapping them in cling film and leaving them in the fridge. Even in the short time it takes to do that she can see the butter starting to get soft around the edges: the heat today is going to be a killer, if any of them gets decent lamination it’ll be due to sheer luck.

Once the dough is proofed, she pops it into the fridge just as she said, then rolls out each batch and wraps them around the butter blocks. They get a quick once over of the rolling pin, folded up (a book fold for the kouign-amann, a letter fold for the pain au chocolat) and then it’s into the freezer to chill between turns. She’s using the freezer today both for expediency and as extra insurance against the heat of the day. As it is the dough needs about ten to fifteen minutes between turns and she alternates between, making for a good rhythm moving back and forth between batches—turning and rolling out one, then swapping it out for the other, with little rest time in between. The trick is to work as quickly as possible doing the turns so the butter stays cool. The other trick is to keep the two doughs separate from one another as, while the dough for the pain au chocolat stays plain, the dough for the kouign-amann gets sprinkled with sugar for the last two turns. The fact that they’re folded differently helps, but Serena keeps a little piece of paper and a pencil on her bench and marks on it which she’s working with when she pulls it out of the freezer as insurance against her forgetting halfway through what she’s doing. It’s hectic all about her in the tent, her fellow contestants chaotically busy rushing back and forth between fridges and benches just like her.

When the first batch of dough is ready, she sets to work rolling out the dough for her pain au chocolat. Once the dough is rolled out to a rectangle of the right size, she cuts the dough into small rectangles and gets to filling them. The easiest way to make pain au chocolat, is to wrap the croissant dough around chocolate batons to get the perfect uniform shape that’s so much harder to achieve when trying to use unevenly broken pieces of chocolate. Serena’s trick is to use extremely good quality chocolate and to use two batons in each pastry—one dark chocolate, one milk chocolate for the perfect balance of sweet and rich.

Once a piece of dough is wrapped around the chocolate, it gets placed seam side down on a parchment-lined baking sheet. The baking sheet she pops into a clear plastic bag for the final proof, leaves it on the counter rather than in the proofing drawer, and then she turns her attention to her kouign-amann.

She starts by rolling out the dough, sprinkled once more with ample sugar, and then cutting the rolled out rectangle of dough into four inch squares (for Bake Off, Serena pulls out a ruler and measures them, at home she just eyeballs the dimensions). Then the square’s corners are folded into the centre to create the classic shape and it is placed in a well-greased muffin tin. She repeats this process for each square, then tops each pastry with sugar, butter, and chopped pecans before leaving them to proof.

“As Napoleon would say,” Sue calls out, “when you set out to bake viennoiseries, bake viennoiseries. One hour left on your signature challenge, bakers.”

Serena needs to get moving. She pulls her pain au chocolats out of the bag in which they’ve been proofing, pops them into the oven at 220, spritzing the sides of the oven with water while she does so. After ten minutes, she rotates the pan, puts the temp down to 200, and adds the muffin tin of kouign-amanns to the oven.

After another ten minutes the pain au chocolat are puffy and beautifully brown. Serena pulls them out of the oven and sets them to cool, the kouign-amann will need another thirty minutes at least. While she waits for them to bake she gives the pain au chocolat a critical once over. They look okay, as flaky and beautiful as she’s ever made them as far as she can tell.

She checks on the kouign-amanns when her timer sounds, they look almost done, just not quite. It’s tough with these, the sugar on top can catch so easily and make a mess of it all, but serving them when they’ve not got that beautifully caramelised top would be a crying shame.

“When will you realise viennoiseries wait for you?” Sue shouts out. “Actually they don’t, not here. You’ve got five minutes left bakers! That’s five minutes on your viennoiseries.”

Serena decides to call it, snags the tin out of the oven. They look good, nicely browned, and the sugar on the top looks caramelised. She grabs a knife, pops her kouign-amanns out of their tin and onto the waiting serving platter beside the pain au chocolats. Then she settles in to wait for judging.

Bernie’s up first, with an almond xuixo—a deep fried pastry filled with crema catalana—and a pecan and maple danish. Both are pronounced delicious, with special attention devoted to the xuixo, a Catalan treat neither judge has tried before. The pastry is judged as beautifully crisp, the cream inside soft and flavourful, and Serena gasps in delight as Paul reaches across the workstation to give Bernie what is surely a well-deserved Hollywood Handshake.

Mo’s strawberry and cherry danish is not as well-received, despite the great flavours the pastry bears a soggy bottom, but her chilli and chocolate croissants are well baked and taste good. Dom’s viennoiseries—vanilla and cardamom croissants and dulce de leche danishes—look a mess, but the bake is good and they’re flavourful to boot. In contrast, Jac’s professional looking chocolate cinnamon croissants, made with a technically challenging chocolate pastry, and blueberry and creme pat escargot have a lovely bake, but are a bit of a failure when it comes to flavour.

They come to Serena next. Thankfully both her pain au chocolat and her salted caramel pecan kouign-amann pass muster. Well-baked, she’s told, beautifully flaky pastry, good flavours. She can’t help the grin on her face after they walk away. She turns her head before she thinks about it, unconsciously seeking Bernie’s reaction, is greeted by a thumbs up and a mouthed ‘congrats’. Serena tears her attention away from Bernie’s proud little smile, looks towards where Zosia’s pastries are in the process of being judged.

It’s not going well for the poor girl. Both her cherry turnovers and her raspberry mousse filled chouquettes are the victims of soggy pasty, and the turnovers have lost their layers of lamination at some point in the heat of the day. Last of all is Raf, going with classic croissants and pain au raisins. Even by look alone they’re something; simple, yes, but precise, uniform, beautiful. And simple works in his favour on this challenge, as the judges decree them to be phenomenal, Mary going so far as to call them both ‘sheer perfection’.

* * *

Sue and Mel announce the black bun technical in the worst Scottish accents Bernie has ever heard. They have 2 ½ hours to make them from Paul’s modified recipe and Paul’s offer of advice before he left the tent that they need to be quick yet patient is as helpful as one could expect.

Bernie pulls the cloth off of the ingredients and pulls the recipe towards her. It's as sparse and unhelpful as she’s come to expect. Bernie's never made black bun, she has a vague idea of what it is but not much beyond that.

“Do you know what it is?” Sue asks, coming up behind Bernie and peering over her shoulder

“It’s Scottish isn’t it?” Bernie replies, turning towards her. “Raf might be the one to keep an eye on here.”

“So just cheat off the Scottish guy?” Sue says with a grin

“Oh of course,” Bernie’s voice is mock-serious. “Imitation is the highest form of flattery, or something like that.” Sue laughs at that and Bernie can't help laugh in return, her loud braying laugh that everyone in the tent is well used to by now, a sound which only makes Sue laugh harder.

“Go on, stop distracting me!” Bernie says finally. “I have to try to read Paul Hollywood’s mind through three lines of useless text.”

“Oh so now I'm a distraction?” Sue’s tone teeters on the edge of full blown flirtation.

“Hah! You wish.” It's easy, fun, a bit of banter that always sets Bernie at ease, made all the more fun because of the lack of intent behind it.

Sue moves away and Bernie combines the ingredients for the shortcrust pastry, gets it made and in the fridge resting before continuing on. She preheats the oven to 180, thankfully Paul has taken pity on them and given them an oven temperature. Though beyond that the instructions just say, ‘bake till done’. Really if he's going to be that obtuse he may as well just write nothing at all Bernie thinks bitterly as she mixes the rest of the ingredients together. Flour, raisins, currants, ginger, cinnamon, allspice, mixed spice, pepper, muscovado sugar, mixed peel, bicarbonate of soda, whisky, an egg, and buttermilk, it's essentially just a Christmas fruitcake.

She rolls out the pastry as bidden, chooses a loaf tin to line with it. She thinks that's the shape she remembers for a black bun, and anyway it's the tin she would've chosen for a fruitcake so it'll have to do. She fills the pastry with the filling, tops it with the rest of the pastry and crimps the edges. Paul asks for a bow to be made from the scraps of pastry. Bernie does her best—it's ugly as sin but it'll have to be good enough. They have an extra egg on their bench, the recipe doesn't say anything about an egg wash, but just as in technical challenges in weeks before Bernie's mind protests at the thought of putting pastry in the oven without one.

She beats the egg with water, brushes her pastry all over, and gets it in the oven. An hour and fifty-five minutes are left in the challenge.

Bernie thinks of Paul’s parting words. It must be that this challenge requires this long of a bake. It must be. She sees no other reason for the time that they've been allotted. So she sets her timer for an hour and a half and accepts a mug of tea from one of the production assistants.

She takes the break from the action to look about her. Raf’s got his in the oven already, looks like, a fact that makes Bernie feel better about her actions. Serena's just putting hers in now, Bernie can see her bending over her oven, finds herself staring at her friend’s arse before she realizes what she's doing and quickly looks away. Ridiculous of her, really. Everyone else is not far behind them, ten minutes pass and by that time they've all got their bakes in the oven.

It’s odd, when Bernie can think of watching the show on telly there was never a real sense of interminable waiting during the bakes. There were some shots, of course, of people hanging about, but it always seemed to move so quickly after everything had been edited down to 45 precious minutes. But here in the tent there’s a lot of standing around. Bernie taps her fingers against her knee, watches the timer tick down, slow as molasses, eventually wanders over to Serena’s bench for some reprieve from the boredom.

She chats with Serena for a bit, then heads back to her bench, spends the majority of the challenge sitting on the ground, leaning back against her bench. It’s too hot in the tent with all the ovens on and the sun beating down outside. She drinks an absurd amount of water and wonders briefly if this whole thing is worth this. She could be back home or in Holby right now, lying on her bed naked with a fan pointed directly at her. It sounds a lot better than this.

Bernie’s timer goes off and she opens her oven door to take a look at her bake. It’s browning well, but she thinks it might need more time. It’s all guess work at this point, really. They have thirty minutes left in the challenge and Bernie’s going to leave it for another twenty at least.

When her timer goes off at twenty minutes, she checks the black bun again, and decides to pull it out. She wants to give the pastry a bit of time to rest in the tin before turning it out. Normally for something like this, Bernie would expect to leave it in the tin for at least thirty minutes before turning it out—perhaps even longer. In the tent she is afforded no such luxury. With just a couple of minutes left on the clock she slides the black bun out of the tin as gently as possible, and places it on the provided plate. The pastry is an okay colour, not as good as she’d like it to be though, though there’s not much she can do about that now.

Bernie walks up with everyone else and places her bake behind the photo of herself on the table. She sits down on the middle stool, placed between Serena and Jac today, and waits while Mary and Paul re-enter the tent. The technicals are a bit of a dismal lot, many of the bakes (Bernie’s included) have slumped a little where they sit, some have slumped a lot. One, and Bernie feels immediate sympathy for Mo, has almost completely collapsed. It must have still been raw when she took it out of the oven.

The judges come to Zosia’s first, when they cut through the inside isn’t quite baked. Bernie watches with interest, she expects they’ll be hearing much the same about almost everyone’s bakes today: it all came down to timing. Mo’s next and sure enough hers is completely raw. The filling looks to almost be still batter. Paul is scathing in his critique, of course, but Mary takes pity by trying a bit of the pastry bow and declaring the shortcrust to be ‘very well made indeed’. Still, Bernie can imagine that does little to soften the blow.

Dom’s attempt was considerably more successful. It’s baked, to begin with, already putting him a leg ahead. Though Paul points out it’s just barely so. The pastry is flaky, the fruitcake inside tastes good as well. Bernie’s is next. Once again Paul pronounces it  _just_ baked, and Bernie lets out a sigh of relief. The pastry and the fruitcake inside taste good as well, though Paul does point out how clumsy the bow on top looks. Serena and Jac are both the victims of slight under baking, and Paul picks apart each of their bakes with something akin to glee. Last of all is Raf’s. Bernie’s glad to see he has lived up to his Scottish heritage. His black bun is praised by Paul and Mary alike. Baked enough (Paul notes it to be ‘five minutes from perfection’), well-made pastry, and good on flavour as well.

They sit on their little stools quietly as Paul and Mary confer in front of them, pointing from one end of the table to another. It is clear to Bernie that Raf will be coming first; she just hopes she does well enough to eke through.

“In seventh place,” Paul says stepping up to Mo’s disaster. “It’s massively under baked,” he tells Mo after she raises her hand to claim it as her own. “How long did you have it in there?”

“Hour and fifteen, or thereabouts?”

“Yeah, just not long enough. You’re looking for about two hours on this bake, minimum.”

Zosia’s next, and then Serena. Jac takes fourth place, and Bernie is delighted to snag third. Not, she thinks, so much because of her own success as because of the lack of success of others. Dom takes second, and a very deserving Raf gets first.

“I guess they’ll be letting me back into Scotland after all,” he says with a little laugh after everyone’s applauded him on his success.

They head outside for more interviews after that. Faff about getting all the minutiae of the day dealt with before they’re finally sent back to Bath.

The group of them spend the evening eating and drinking and talking. It’s lovely to hang out with all of them, Bernie loves that she’s been able to get to know everyone there. She looks around at the group at one point, realises that before too long this group will be no more. She so hopes they all stay in contact after Bake Off is done. Bernie hasn’t felt like she had such a close group of friends since, well, since the IED hit.

“Why the long face?” Serena asks, leaning in and breaking Bernie away from her thoughts.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Here,” Serena says as she tops her glass up with shiraz, “this’ll make you feel better.”

* * *

“Good morning bakers,” Mel says when they’re all in their places in the tent, aprons on and ready to work. “Welcome to your pastry week showstopper day.”

“Today we are looking for thirty six pastry mignardises,” Sue tells them.

“These mignardises must be minuscule!” Mel’s French accent is thankfully better than her Scottish one from the day before. “Exigu! Infinitésimal!”  
“They should be so small, in fact, that they get veritably lost in Paul’s massive palms.”

“You must have twelve of each puff, filo, and choux mignardises. And they must be as sweet as Mary’s smile.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set!”

“Bake!”

Serena starts out right away with beginning her puff pastry. She’s never made it from scratch as often as she has since starting Bake Off. It’s becoming almost second nature by this point—the lean dough mixed together and rolled out, the butter pounded into a block and then wrapped in the dough. The turns that make for the glorious lamination. She could probably make it with her eyes closed at this point. Which is not to say she’s not going to go right back to using the frozen sheets from the grocery story once this whole to-do is done. Not that she wants to be out of the tent, of course, but she will admit that whenever her time in the tent is done the ensuing break will be welcome.

She starts her filo pastry next, as it too needs a rest period and rolling it out is time-intensive. She’s mixes her flour, salt, and warm water together, then adds the olive oil. She’s kneading it, looking for the dough to become soft, shiny, and supple, when the judges get to her bench.

“This is your filo?” Mary asks.

“That’s right. So I’ll be doing poppy seed filo pockets with this, a bit like a kolache filling, and then for the puff I’m doing mini palmiers, and for the choux it’s sort of a mini croquembouche.”

“A croquembouche?” Paul questions. “How many balls in each?”

“Four. Three on the bottom and then the one on top. It manages to have a nice effect I’ve found,” she says.

“Still that sounds quite large,” Paul says, “a mignardise has to be small.”

“Oh the choux is piped just absolutely tiny,” Serena tells him. “I don’t think you’ll find them too large.”

“We’ll see.”

Serena sets aside her phyllo pastry to rest as the judges move on. She hears them talking to Bernie behind her about her choux pastry Paris-Brests, before she ignores them in favour of concentrating on her own work. It’s time for the first turns on her puff pastry. She’s using a book fold today, rolling out the pastry and then folding both edges into the middle and then folding the whole portion in half. She does that twice before putting it into the freezer to rest once more. She wipes away a bit of sweat on her forehead—it’s blasted hot in the tent, even hotter than yesterday—and then sticks her flour, rolling pin, and a pastry cloth in the freezer as well for good measure. Keeping her tools cold will lessen the chance of the pastry getting too warm while she does her turns, something that would prove disastrous to the final product.

She starts on her choux pastry, preheats the oven to 200, then grabs a large saucepan and sets it on the hob. Into the pan goes butter, water, and salt. She turns the heat on to high and watches over the mixture, stirring occasionally, until the butter is melted and the whole lot has come to a rolling boil. She takes the pan off the heat and dumps the flour in all at once, stirring the mixture vigorously. Then it’s back over the heat (this time only at medium heat) and Serena continues to stir the dough. The purpose of stirring it like this, she explains to a camera operator who has come up to film what she’s doing, is to mash the dough against the sides of the pot and then gather it all in the middle, over and over again, until the dough is dried out and the flour is cooked.

When the dough pulls away from the sides of the pan and is shiny, glossy, and stiff, Serena knows it’s ready. Next she puts the dough into the bowl of the stand mixture, with the paddle attachment, and lets the machine beat it until it’s cooled down to the point where she can safely touch it. This step could be done by hand, but Serena’s arm is tired enough from the mixing over the stove and, anyway, this is what machines are for. Once the dough has cooled, she beats a few eggs in a separate bowl and adds them slowly until the dough is soft, smooth, and the perfect creamy colour. She gets there without using quite the whole amount of egg, but she’s happy with the dough as is. She puts the mixture into a piping bag—enlists the help of Sue who’s walking past at just right the moment, has her hold the bag while Serena puts the choux mixture inside.

Then she pipes what will eventually be her tiny little profiteroles. Choux pastry puffs up an extraordinary amount in the oven, so the circles she pipes out are really quite tiny, they must be to satisfy Paul’s standards for the size of the finished product. She needs 48 of them, which takes two trays, and once she’s piped them all her hands ache from the effort of piping out such a stiff mixture. She brushes them with the remaining egg, and slides the trays into the oven immediately, and moves on. It’s crucial to not open the door while choux pastry bakes, so she sets her timer for 10 minutes, and moves on to do another turn of her puff pastry.

The rolling pin is cold under her hands and it’s not the most comfortable way to do things, but having all of her utensils chilled does help to keep the pastry cold while she works with it. She gets the pastry turned twice and back to chill once more before moving on to her filo pockets.

She makes the filling first, as it will need to chill, mixes together ground poppy seeds, warm milk, butter, vanilla extract, and a bit of lemon juice, tastes it to make sure it’s sweet enough and then sets it in the fridge. It will thicken as it cools.

For the filo pastry she clears her bench off almost entirely. It’s going to be tricky, filo pastry always is. She has a long piece of dowelling she brought with her from home, a necessity for this recipe—a regular rolling pin just isn’t long enough. She sprinkles cornflour over the surface and on the dough before beginning rolling it out.

The timer goes off, and Serena pauses in her stretching to crouch down in front of her oven and check on her profiteroles. They look good, they’ve puffed up nicely but she thinks they can use a few more minutes. It wouldn’t do for them to be under baked, not at all.

She continues to roll out the phyllo dough, stretching it further and further, dusting it with cornflour as she goes (for such a thin dough any sticking would be disaster, it would tear immediately). She pauses to take the profiteroles out of the oven, she’s happy with how they look. She does a quick turn of the puff pastry, has to use a side table in the back of the room to do it, and gets back to the filo. She looks over it carefully, runs her hands along, underneath the dough to see just how thin it’s gotten, and if she should go any further.

“Tried reading through it yet?” Bernie asks from behind her. Serena spins about.

“Have you?”

Bernie just points down at her bench and Serena takes a moment to glance at what she’s got there. It’s obviously her notes for the bake and yes, you can read the writing through the pastry. Serena has to laugh as she gets a look at the ‘recipe’, it’s more like a couple of scrawls of information on a page without even the hint of organisation.

“Nice recipe,” she tells Bernie.

“Oh,” Bernie replies shyly, reaching one flour covered hand up to rub at the back of her neck self-consciously (and managing to get a streak of flour on her neck in the process). “Yeah I didn’t really use a recipe for this so much as, well. It works.”

Serena just has to smile at her because  _oh_ it’s just so… Bernie. With the streak of flour and the discomfort and what Serena is sure will end up being perfect pastry, ridiculous lack of a recipe and all. She turns back to her bench, decides to stretch the pastry just a tad further and then, just for the sake of it, sees if she can read her recipe through it.

It works.

She’s making little square parcels for the filo dish, so she cuts her dough into strips. For each one she layers two strips on top of each other, and then two more strips perpendicular on top, making a little cross. Between each layer she brushes the dough lightly with melted butter. Into the centre of the cross she plops a bit of the filling, then folds the strips of pastry up, overlapping them and sealing the filling neatly inside. They’re so small. Everything’s small for this challenge, and it makes for delicate, tedious work. She gets all twelve shaped and onto baking trays, pops them in the oven, takes a deep breath, and keeps going.

It’s a bit like running a marathon, really, this whole baking thing. Or, rather, it’s like what Serena imagines running a marathon to be like. She markedly prefers not running. Ever. But the whole Bake Off is quite the test of endurance. She’s used to baking a bit at a time, having a sit and a cuppa in between getting things in and out of the oven. Here it’s all go, go, go. No time to pause even if you wanted to or goodness knows you won’t get everything baked in time. She grabs yet another saucepan, How many of these has she gone through today? she wonders aimlessly, and gets started on the creme pat she needs for her croquembouche. It’s a simple vanilla crème pat, and as she heats the milk she starts thinking about her next steps. She’ll roll out her palmiers while the crème pat chills in the fridge, then—her timer goes off and she checks on the phyllo parcels. Going well, she thinks, just a couple minutes more and they’ll be perfect. She closes her oven door, finishes up with the crème pat and gets it in a bowl in the fridge to cool off, cling film stuck to the top of the mixture so it doesn’t develop an annoying skin.

“Half an hour left bakers!”

Serena swears at that, spins around to pull her filo parcels from the oven. They’re nicely brown, she slides them onto cooling racks and feels a bit like breaking out into a run.

With the palmiers, the trick is to keep them small. She rolls out her puff pastry, sprinkles it all over with sugar, and then folds in the sides in much the same way as a book fold—folded into the middle and then in half again—then she slices the pastry like a log, leaving the beautiful laminated cross sections of palmiers. She gets all twelve onto a tray and gets them into the oven.

The filo parcels are to get a lemon glaze drizzled on top of them, Serena whips that up, leaves it aside for the moment and grabs her crème pat out of the fridge. It’s ready to go, she fills a piping bag with it and gets to filling her profiteroles.

They’re so small that they don’t take much filling. She works her way through all of them as quickly as possible, curses herself for deciding to do something needing forty-eight of the blasted things.

She moves over to drizzle the icing over the filo parcels, sprinkles them with poppy seeds and gets them onto the platter. Those, at least, are ready to be presented. She gets a saucepan for her caramel, puts sugar and water in it and leaves it on the stove, swirling it about occasionally until the sugar is dissolved and then leaving it alone. When the caramel is ready she starts by making the little spun sugar nests that will adorn her croquembouches. Somewhere in the midst of the insanity she pulls her palmiers out of the oven and pronounces them good enough. Then she assembles the towers. She dips each profiterole in caramel, sticks together three on the bottom and one on top for each of the twelve towers. She burns her fingers at least thrice in her haste. But eventually, and  _just_ in time, she gets each tower assembled and adorned with spun sugar. She pushes the palmiers onto the serving platter as Sue announces the end of the challenge.

She turns around to look at Bernie behind her.

“Oof, that was… a lot,” she says.

“A little hectic in the end I’d say,” Bernie grins.

“Just a little? What I wouldn’t give to be you.”

“Ha,” Bernie’s laugh borders on the derisive. As though the last thing Serena would want is to be her.

“I think I burned half my fingers trying to get all that sugar work done,” Serena says instead of commenting on it.

“Really?” Bernie reaches for Serena’s hands, holds them in her own and inspects them carefully.

“I’m fine,” Serena says. Bernie’s hands are cool, graceful, unbelievably soft.

“Let me look, just to be sure. Doctors really are the worst patients.”

“Very well, Ms. Wolfe, if you must.”  
“Thank you Ms. Campbell.” Bernie runs her fingers gently across Serena’s skin, checking to make sure there’s no damage. Serena can’t help the reaction she has to the feeling of it, the gentle care with which Bernie is looking after. It’s nice to have a friend, someone in your corner looking out for her. Something Serena hasn’t had in a very long time.

“Do I pass muster?”

“Mmm. Yes. You’re fine.” It takes a couple more seconds before Bernie releases her hands, and Serena does nothing to break the contact first.

She turns back around, clears her throat, gets ready for the judging.

Raf’s up first, and he carries an impressive tower of pastries to the front of the room. He’s made little pomegranate and chocolate mille feuille—and they are absolutely tiny! Serena can’t imagine what fiddly work assembling them must have been—choux pastry swans with vanilla creme pat, and for the phyllo he’s made sfogliatella. Serena’s had the lobster-tail-esque pastries only once before, at an Italian bakery near the house she and Edward lived in, but she’d never dream of making them by hand. And a miniature version at that! Raf’s outdone himself by the look of them, and the review from the judges agrees with that. Delicate, delicious, with perfect pastry. Raf walks back to his bench with a well-deserved smile of relief on his face.

Dom’s pastry is well-baked, but both judges take issue with the size of his cream horns, profiteroles, and chocolate phyllo parcels. They’re simply too large to be mignardises is the consensus, Paul goes so far to call them clumsy. Mary, however, does commend him on his flavours.

Jac’s pastries are, as expected, beautifully small. In terms of bake, however, they fall far short of the standard Serena has been used to seeing from her. The puff pastry in her vol au vents has lost its lamination, though the strawberries and almond cream filling is delicious. Her miniature baklava are cloyingly sweet, and under baked. And her choux offering, gorgeous tiny st honoré cakes, are under baked and flavourless. It just goes to show that even the best of them can have a bad day in the tent. For the first time Serena can think of Jac might be in trouble.

Mo’s not having the best of days either. Her cherry strudels collapsed in the oven (cursed by the heat of the day, Serena’s sure), and her berry phyllo tartlets are under baked. To top it off, the chocolate coating on her bossche bols is dull, not glossy.

Serena heads up next. Her palmiers get praise from both judges, Mary commenting specifically on the lamination of the pastry. Her phyllo parcels are liked, but not loved. Paul thinks the look of them is underwhelming for a showstopper, and Mary dithers on whether or not she likes the poppy seed filling. Her croquembouche, however, go over very well indeed. Both Paul and Mary praise her for her ingenuity—the minute size of her profiteroles that make the little towers possible to be classified as mignardises. The sugar work is deemed impressive, and the bake very good. Serena’s very happy with the result.

Zosia’s next. As soon as the judging begins Paul points out that her pastries are simply too large. Furthermore, her chocolate vol au vents have caught on the tips, her pear and ginger tartlets are lacking in flavour, and her religieuse have collapsed. A disappointing show all around.

Last of all is Bernie. She has outdone herself, in Serena’s opinion, and she can’t help but be proud of her friend as she watches her walk her bakes to the front. She’s made damson plum galettes, with just one beautifully caramelised half of a plum in each. Her blueberry phyllo parcels are dainty and beautifully brown from base to tip. And Serena cannot believe her Paris-Brests, so perfectly piped and yet so small. They pass on all accounts, bake and flavour, and Serena smiles as the judges laud Bernie’s work.

As she makes her way out of the tent to do the interviews she catches up to Bernie, grabs her hand and squeezes it tight.

“Good job you,” she says in a low voice.

“Oh, thanks. You too.”

“Mmm. I didn’t do well enough for star baker this week, that’s for sure, so all my hopes are with you.”

Bernie doesn’t say anything to that, just gives Serena one of her signature half-second smiles and squeezes her hand briefly.

In the end, it’s Raf who gets the accolade of Star Baker this week and Serena can’t hold any rancour against him for that. He’s definitely earned it and she hugs him tightly as she offers her congratulations.

The person leaving the tent this week, is Zosia. Serena’s legitimately saddened to see her go—this elimination thing gets tougher and tougher each week. She bids her a fond farewell, makes her promise to write or tweet or whatever it is her generation does to keep in touch. Enjoys the laugh Zosia gives her at that.

After the day is finally over, and it’s a late one this week, Serena takes the train home. She dozes against the window, dreams about her trauma bay, about the new locum that’s coming in to train them. She wakes up just as they pull into Holby, groggy and disoriented. Jason and Elinor are waiting for her at the station, she hugs them both tight, begins to regale them with stories of her weekend as they head to the car.

The next morning she gets up, goes to work as usual. She's sitting in her office working through paperwork and enjoying a cup of coffee when a knock on her office door snags her attention. She looks up to find Ms. Grayson standing there, someone that Serena can't quite see standing behind her.

“Ms. Campbell,” Jayne says, “I'd like you to meet your new locum and trauma specialist, Ms. Berenice Wolfe.” She steps to the side and all Serena can do is stare, mouth agape, because standing there looking nervous but resplendent, hair a messy jumble about her face is Bernie.  _Her_ Bernie. Berenice Bloody Wolfe standing in her office at eight am on a Monday morning, because somehow of all the surgeons in the UK, she’s Serena’s new trauma locum.

“Please call me Bernie,” Bernie says, reaching out her hand. Serena takes it in her own, feels slightly more grounded by the firm pressure of the handshake. Knows she must look completely dumbstruck, can’t quite manage to compose herself.

“Serena,” she says after a moment, holds on for a couple seconds longer, lets go when she realises this entire interaction must look horribly odd to Jayne.

“I'll leave you two to it then,” Jayne says, the look on her face making it clear to Serena that she thinks this whole thing very strange but has many more important things to worry about. “Welcome to Holby Ms. Wolfe.”


	11. Dessert Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy day one of berena appreciation week I guess!  
> today's chapter is for Beth who is a v cool person and has one of the most beautiful doggos in the world.  
> posting this on the way to go drink my body weight in craft beer cause I'm classy like that

Bernie tries to tamp down the nervous feeling in her stomach. It doesn't matter how many different hospitals she's worked at, how good she knows she is, she can't help the butterflies she gets on her first day. Holby City’s NHS trust is a sizeable hospital but the directory is clear and Bernie takes the lift up to Ms. Grayson’s office without incident. She raps her knuckles lightly on the open door and the blonde woman sitting at the desk—Ms. Grayson, Bernie presumes—lifts her head.

“Ah Ms. Wolfe?” She asks and Bernie notes her odd accent, more noticeable now than over the phone, tinged with Scottish influence. She's an attractive woman, perhaps a decade older than Bernie, well dressed enough to make Bernie feel a tad awkward about the crumpled blouse and skinny jeans she pulled from her as yet unpacked suitcase this morning. She nods her assent at the question. “Jayne Grayson,” the woman says, reaches her hand out and Bernie takes it in a firm handshake. “Would you like a tour of the hospital?”

“Actually Ms. Grayson I prefer to just jump right in.”

“Fair enough. I'll take you down to AAU then and let you get started.”

Bernie follows dutifully, down to the ground floor, through busy corridors and onto the ward. It's busy on AAU, but there's organization to the chaos: that's evident to Bernie immediately. They walk through to an office set to the side of the ward. Bernie’s ears prick up when she hears one of the nurses say ‘Serena’, feels absolutely absurd at that. She waits behind Ms. Grayson as she knocks on the door.

“Ms. Campbell,” she says, “I'd like you to meet your new locum and trauma specialist, Ms. Berenice Wolfe.” And then she's stepping to the side and Bernie’s looking into the room and all she can do is stare in astonishment because it's Serena. Her Serena. Serena Fucking Campbell sitting there in what Bernie now knows to be her office looking at Bernie with as much shock in her eyes as Bernie feels.

“Please call me Bernie,” Bernie says, reaches out for a handshake because she doesn't know what else to do, what else to say, and she has no clue if Ms. Grayson knows that Serena's on Bake Off. She's signed enough NDAs to know letting that cat out of the bag is a no-no.

Serena takes her hand and Bernie can't help but notice how soft her skin is, how warm her palm is. They're frozen in time for a moment, staring each other in the eyes as their hands linger, clasped.

“Serena.” Serena says finally.

“I'll leave you two to it then,” Ms. Grayson says. “Welcome to Holby Ms. Wolfe.”

They're both frozen in place, even after Ms. Grayson leaves, standing in the soft light of Serena's office both trying to come to terms with the fact that the other person is here.

Bernie drops Serena's hand, clears her throat.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“This is, um, this is weird isn't it?” Bernie says and then they're both dissolving into giggles at the absurdity of the situation.

“Come in, sit down,” Serena says when she's finally caught her breath. She stands and closes the door behind Bernie and Bernie perches on the edge of her desk. “So you're my new trauma locum, eh?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, I'm sure it goes without saying but I'm very glad to have you on board.”

“Very glad to be on board.”

They sit there for a little bit longer and then Serena clears her throat, stands up.

“Well. Shall we get started?”

“Lets.”

They're headed out onto the floor when Serena stops and turns to Bernie.

“Oh! Drinks tonight? I figure as I'm the only person you know here it's my job to introduce you to the local haunts. Or haunt, rather.”

“I’d love to.”

They get into a fight that first day. A patient comes in with a traumatic liver injury and Bernie thinks they should pack it and wait. Serena disagrees, wants to fix it right then and there, and so they're standing there in theatre with their hands inside of him having a heated debate. Serena pulls rank, they go with her decision and it works but it leaves Bernie incredibly nervous. Strange as it may be, having met in a competition, she and Serena have never truly been at odds before. She avoids Serena for the rest of the day, buries herself in the considerable work involved in setting up a trauma bay. She doesn't know if Serena's offer of drinks still stands. Maybe Serena expects her to just agree with her here at work? What if that's what she needs to do to be friends with her? Bernie doesn't know if she can do that, she fought for what she thought was right with that patient, has never been able to do any different no matter where she is or who she’s disagreeing with.

She's changed out of scrubs, grabbing her coat and purse from Serena's office when she finally sees her.

“Still up for that drink?” Serena asks, coming into the office.

“Oh. Um, yes. I wasn't sure you'd…” it sounds pathetic now to say her fears out loud.

“Wasn't sure I still wanted to go for drinks after our little spat earlier?” Serena infers, eyebrow arched.

“Well, um. Something like that.”

“Bernie I'm glad you stood up for what you thought was right today, even if I didn’t agree. I'd never want anything less from one of my staff. And please,” she grins, “I'm not going to let you get out of drinks that easily.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Besides,” Serena says, nudging Bernie with her shoulder, “if I stopped drinking with people just because we had a professional disagreement over a course of treatment I would be drinking alone every night.”

They go out for drinks that night and every night that week.

They already know most things about each other, and working together and being on Bake Off together means there aren’t many developments in their lives that the other doesn’t immediately know about. Still, tucked into the corner at Albie’s, smiling at each other over sizeable glasses of shiraz, it’s easy to find things to chat about. They talk about everything from world politics to medicine, and in-between it all lament about how they should probably be at home at that exact moment doing practice bakes for the weekend. If Bernie was worried about getting tired of Serena's presence she couldn't have been more wrong. In fact, it's the complete opposite. The more time Bernie spends with Serena the more she wants to be around her, a constant cycle with Bernie getting drawn in closer and closer as Serena barely seems to notice.

It's likely for this reason that Bernie suggests they carpool down to Bath. The suggestion’s out of her mouth one night at Albie’s before she can think twice about it. She starts back-pedalling immediately because maybe Serena likes taking the train, maybe Serena doesn’t want to be stuck in a car with her, maybe Serena needs some distance. Serena cuts through Bernie’s babbling, covers her hand with her own and tells Bernie she’d love to.

They leave after work Friday evening, later than they’d hoped because Serena gets out of theatre late.

“You could've gone on without me,” she tells Bernie when she gets back to the office.

“Nonsense,” Bernie says. “I promised you a ride. Besides, I don't mind waiting.”

“When I set out to be a surgeon I didn't realize it would be the kiss of death on me ever getting anywhere on time again,” Serena sighs a little, grabs her bags and follows Bernie out of the hospital.

“Ah, yes,” Bernie agrees, “a peril of the trade. Not that I can really speak to it, being on time was never my forte to begin with.”

“Oh so for you it was just the perfect excuse?” Serena grins, “I see, I see.”

They reach Bernie’s MX-5, and Serena looks the little car over with interest.

“An impulse buy post-divorce,” Bernie says, feels she must explain it away. “Frivolous I know—”

“I like it,” Serena tells her, “it suits you.”

“Oh,” Bernie says; and then, “thank you.”

They bicker over music in so far as to say both of them tries to insist that the other choose. Bernie finally gives in, plays the songs off of her phone, hooked up through the car’s Bluetooth system.

The soft strains of Joni Mitchell fill the air as Bernie pulls out of the Holby car park, heads southeast towards Bath.

“I love this song,” Serena says immediately. She sings along quietly with the tune, “I could drink a case of you darling and I'd still be on my feet.” Her voice is warm and lovely and of course it is, of course Serena's as good at singing as she is at anything else she tries her hand at in life.

“Me too,” Bernie replies softly. Has to force herself to remember to look at the road and not the way the setting sun highlights Serena’s features, the way her eyes shine and her hair glows in the golden-orange haze.

The ride to Bath isn't long, forty-five minutes at most, but their late departure means it's almost ten before they get there. They’ll have missed dinner with the other contestants—a habit the group has mostly kept up through the weeks—so they stop at a pub on the outskirts of town, eat greasy burgers and chips in a cramped little booth.

“What do you think about what Anna said last week? About needing a twitter and whatever else,” Bernie asks, having just remembered it.

“Ah, about how we need to create,” Serena puts her burger down so she can make quotation marks with her fingers, “our brand?”

“Right,” Bernie snorts.

“Well I already have a twitter and an instagram, do you not?”

“Lord no, you’ve seen me type, I’m not exactly technologically adept.”

“True,” Serena agrees with a laugh. “Well we’ll figure out a time for you to come over and Jason and Ellie and I will help you with the setup, how’s that? I think between the three of us we’ll make a decent match for your tech abilities, or lack thereof.”

“Deal,” Bernie agrees.

Sunrise, run, coffee and pastries, coach to the tent, hair and makeup, interviews: mornings have garnered a specific routine for Bernie. She likes it, likes knowing where she’ll be going next. It generally keeps her nerves at bay. At least until Mel, Sue, and the judges enter the tent.

“Good day to you bakers,” Sue begins, “and may I wish you all this weekend your just deserts.”

“For your signature challenge,” Mel says next, “we are asking you to make a treacle tart.”

“As sweet and tender as Mary Berry herself, please,” says Sue.

“You have one and a half hours to reach perfection,” Mel pauses and Bernie knows an awful pun is coming, “as treacky as that may be.”  She looks all too pleased with herself.

“On your marks,” Sue says, barely tamping down a laugh.

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Bernie has chosen for this challenge to make a traditional treacle tart, as she explains to the judges soon after the challenge begins. To this end, she starts off with a simple shortcrust, just butter and flour, which she gets together and chilled in the fridge before moving on. The time limit on this challenge is extremely short. Granted, a treacle tart is not the most challenging bake in the world but still. She preheats her oven to 200 and sets a saucepan on the hob for the next step.

She gets a food processor out, pulses chunks of bread until they're completely fine little pieces. If the breadcrumbs are too large, the consistency of the tart will be lumpy and will run the risk of catching in the oven. She puts golden syrup in the saucepan, turns the heat of the burner to medium low, and pulls her pastry out of the fridge. She rolls out the majority of it, setting a portion aside for the lattice later. Once it’s to a thickness she likes, she greases a fluted flan tin and lines it with the pastry, docking it all over with a fork to keep it from rising too much in the oven. She adds the breadcrumbs, lemon juice, and lemon zest to the saucepan, stirs it together and then pours it over the pastry.

Mel comes by just as Bernie’s finished with the spatula and the pan of treacle, her timing for this kind of thing always impeccable. She licks the spatula and gives a little hum of delight before speaking.

“Well Bernie, how was your week? Lots of time to practice your tart?”

“Actually,” Bernie says, “I started my new position this week.”

“Right, cause you’re working all over as a, um, locum?”

“Exactly. And,” Bernie pauses and huffs out a little laugh, “as completely wild coincidence would have it I’ve actually been placed on Serena’s ward.”

“Serena? Like  _this_ Serena?” Mel’s flabbergasted. “Serena who’s standing right over there baking a treacle tart Serena?”

“Yeah.”

“No!”

“I swear.”

“That’s. I mean. That’s unbelievable. And you didn’t know you’d be working together?”

“No clue whatsoever.”

“So you showed up for your first day of work…” Mel prompts.

“And there she was,” Bernie says with a shrug.

“Wow,” Mel says. “A Bake Off miracle.”

“Something like that.”

Mel moves on, and Bernie sets to finishing up her tart. For the lattice top, she rolls her pastry into an oval shape and then slices it carefully into strips, taking the time to measure them out to ensure her lines aren’t wonky—she’s sure Mary would take issue if they were. She egg washes the pastry after she cuts it, it’s important to do it now, if she egg washes the strips when they’re over the treacle filling the egg wash can drip down and make the tart look unseemly. She lays out the lattice strips, crossing them over each other in the correct pattern, then presses the edges down against the edge of the tin to slice off the extra, a trick she learned from a cooking blog once that’s easier and quicker than cutting the ends off with a knife, and much neater too.

She gets the tart into the oven, bakes it for ten minutes and then covers the top with foil and reduces the heat to 180. She bakes it for a further twenty minutes, checks on it, and decides to give it ten minutes more. She pulls it out after that, is really quite happy with the look of it. It’s simple, yes, but nicely browned. A good looking tart, overall, she feels fairly confident about the imminent judging.

Bernie watches as Serena’s judged first. She waits nervously as the judges take bites of Serena’s rye and honey treacle tart, finds with each passing week that her anxiety while Serena’s bakes are judged is almost as high as her own. At this point, continuing through the competition without Serena at her side seems unfathomable. She can’t help but smile as Mary and Paul declare the tart to be ‘beautiful’ and ‘absolutely scrummy’. Serena took a risk with a rye shortcrust base, but combined with rye breadcrumbs in the filling it works astoundingly well. And Bernie wants to pump her fist in the air when Paul reaches across the workbench to deliver Serena her very first Hollywood Handshake.

The judges move past and Bernie catches Serena’s eye, mouths ‘go you’. Serena’s smile is radiant. Bernie wishes she could see her smile like that every week. Wonders if her smile would be somehow inconceivably bigger and more beautiful upon winning. She desperately wants Serena to win if only so she can see.

Raf’s tart gets judged next. His pear treacle tart creation showcases multiple whole pears sticking up out of the treacle. It certainly looks impressive. Unfortunately, his pears have not held their flavour well, and while the rest of his tart is delicious and well-baked Paul lambasts him for going with something that ‘just doesn’t work, letting it ruin the rest’.

Mo’s orange and ginger treacle tart gets full points for flavour, but not many for presentation. Jac’s traditional tart is up to her usual standard—which is to say nigh perfect—and Dom’s chocolate treacle tart is also given top marks.

Bernie feels a sort of mounting anxiety as they come up to her bench. Surely not everyone can do well? The likelihood of that is low at best, and she immediately begins to worry that she’s done something really stupid, like mistake sugar for salt, or that they’ll somehow find that at the centre the tart’s still raw. That doesn’t happen, however.

“I recognise this tart,” Mary says after she takes a bite.

“Yes, it’s, um, it’s very close to your recipe.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Mary takes another bite and chews it slowly.

“I don’t know Mary,” Paul says looking towards her, “this one might just outdo yours.” There’s a sort of quiet gasp that runs through the tent at that. “A treacle tart is a classic,” Paul tells Bernie. “And sometimes the best thing for something like this is just to keep it so. Traditional, neat, and when it’s done right it’s just perfection.”

“Absolutely,” Mary agrees with a nod. “I truly don’t know if I could’ve done any better myself.”

With those glowing accolades buoying her, Bernie walks out to do interviews feeling light as air.

* * *

The technical this week, Serena soon leans, is a Sussex pond pudding. She’s fairly certain her mother made this at some point, but Serena honestly can’t remember. It’s a classic, stodgy British pud, that’s for sure. She really should know how to make one, but who eats Sussex pond pudding anymore? It’s certainly not in vogue these days.

Thankfully it’s a Mary recipe, which means it’ll be fiddly and tricky but they’ll have slightly more to go off of than if Paul had been setting the challenge.

She holds the jam lid in her hands, twirls it about between her fingers for a moment.

“Ah, the mysterious jam lid,” Sue says.

“Indeed.”

“What do you think it’s for?”

“I’m not sure,” Serena replies. “Did we all get one?”

“You did, yes.”

“Hmmm. I was wondering if perhaps someone working prep left it on my bench by mistake. But if we all have one…”

“A mystery technique?” Sue says, making it sound like she’s an extra in a Poirot movie.

“Perhaps Mary wants us all to make a jam to go with it and this is her way of telling us how,” Serena jokes. She continues to absentmindedly run it between her fingers as she reads the rest of the instructions once more. Nowhere is there any mention of a jam lid. Serena’s sure it’s crucial in some way, but she’s got not a clue about what to do with it so she says to hell with it and leaves the mysterious lid to the side.

She starts off by combining self-raising flour, suet, milk, and water to make the suet crust, rolls it out and cuts out a portion for what will eventually be the base, before lining the pudding basin with the rest. Into the pastry goes sugar, butter, and lemons, and Serena takes care to prick the lemons before putting them in. Then she places the extra pastry over top to make a sort of lid, presses it together, and gets on with the steaming.

Mary’s recipe calls for a piece of buttered greaseproof paper and aluminium foil, lying one on top of the other. Serena thinks that she should crease the paper for sure—and perhaps the foil as well? She’s not entirely sure on that but from what she remembers about steamed pudding she thinks there should be a crease. She decides to crease them both, pulling up at the centre and then folding over. Then, as the recipe demands, she places the foil and paper over the pudding basin, paper side down, and ties it securely in place. She tucks the edges of the foil in against the basin, uses some extra twine to fashion a handle, and then moves over and takes a look at the pot of water. It’s simmering nicely and Serena’s about to put the pudding in the pan when she realises she has a problem: the pudding basin can’t touch the bottom of the pan while it cooks. She grabs some extra aluminium foil, scrunches it into a secure little packet and places it in the bottom of the pan, puts the pudding in on top of it. She ensures the water level is about midway and places the lid on the pot.

And now, to wait. The recipe instructs them to steam the pudding for three and a half hours, topping up the water level as necessary while it cooks.

The first thirty minutes of literally watching water boil is passable. It’s not her preferred way to spend time but they’ve had waits like this before. The second thirty minutes is painful. By the time they’re halfway through the second hour Serena’s seriously considering pulling her hair out follicle by follicle just to pass the time.

It doesn’t help that the tent is hot. Not just warm, hot. It’s close to forty degrees outside, sunshine’s pouring in through the tents windows, and the six pots of steaming water are making it unbearably humid to boot.

“Have you considered that perhaps they’re trying to sweat us out?” Serena asks Raf. “Perhaps they’re hoping a couple of us die from heat exhaustion before judging comes around.”

“Oh probably,” he agrees. “Or maybe they think we’ll get so bored with the whole thing we’ll just give up.”

“God,” Serena replies, “I’m at least halfway there.”

She even bangs her head against her workbench for effect at one point. Realises only belatedly that there was definitely a camera recording  _that_. Mel and Sue’s announcement that the challenge is half over, usually met with a flurry of panic and activity, is instead greeted with groans of ‘only’? By the time they hit three and a half hours of steaming their puddings, Serena thinks she may just have gone stir-crazy. Not even watching Bernie and Dom make silly faces at each other across the tent, or listening to one of Jac’s outlandish work tales had made that wait bearable. She grabs the pudding out of the water, gingerly removes the foil and paper and takes a look at her pudding. It looks okay, as far as she knows. She inverts it over a serving plate, pulls the basin off, and sets it aside. And then Sue calls the end of the challenge.

Serena walks up with everyone else to the gingham altar, places her pudding behind the photo of her face and steps back.

“I think that was somehow the most tense most boring four hours of my life,” Serena tells Bernie as they get set up on their stools for the judging.

“I know,” Bernie whispers back, “I think I actually fell asleep standing up for a few minutes somewhere along the way.”

“Maybe Mary’s as sadistic as Paul after all,” Serena murmurs, adores the laughter she gets from Bernie in return.

Really when they get down to it, none of the sussex pond puddings on display look particularly nice. True, a steamed pud isn’t exactly the picture of beauty even when perfectly made but, well, it’s nice to see nobody really hit perfection today. Mary and Paul come in and look over the selection and Paul turns to Mary, gives a little laugh.

“Well Mary,” he says, “shall we start over here.” And Serena cannot shake the feeling that he really is enjoying this.

Her sussex pond pudding passes muster, just. Paul and Mary eviscerate all of them one by one, the water level was too high for most, too low for some. The puddings weren’t steamed as long as they should be (though Serena does bitterly wonder where they were supposed to find the time to cook them for longer). The pastry is tough on one, the butter and sugar all clumped on the bottom of another, and a few have made the unforgivable mistake of peeling their lemons. It takes Paul and Mary quite a while to decide on the ranking this week, and Serena’s arse gets sore sitting on the wooden stool as she watches them converse in tones so quiet that Serena can’t quite make anything out.

Finally they step forward: the decisions have been made.

It’s Dom who comes last today, he unfortunately decided to peel his lemon and the excess juices softened his pastry making his whole pudding a rather liquid mess. Mo comes next, she too peeled her lemon, though her pudding is holding together slightly better than Dom’s. Raf comes in fourth, Bernie third, and Serena happily clinches second. First of them all is Jac and Serena happily applauds her success.

“And did you all figure out the jam ring?” Mary asks. They shake their heads 'no' with only Jac nodding a decisive yes. “The pudding basin rests on it and it insulates it from the direct heat of the element.” That does make sense, Serena will admit, though it wasn't worth much when they had no idea what to do with it.

As they walk out of the tent towards post-technical interviews, Jac shrugs at her success.

“I’d say we were all pretty even on that one. Who knows how I eked forward to first.”

That night after they get back to the hotel all six of them head out, end up eating at the bistro they dined at their first night in Bath.

“It’s rather odd, isn’t it?” Dom says, “we’re half gone.”

They all agree, it feels precious to be here, when many of their compatriots are not.

They stay quite a while at the restaurant, eating and drinking, chatting about their lives and about the showstopper that awaits them tomorrow.

“I keep thinking of all those reality tv show contestants,” Mo says at one point, “‘I’m not here to make friends’ and all that. I guess none of us were here to make friends but I’m glad we’ve become friends in the end.”

“Here here!” Serena agrees and they all lean in for a toast.

She wheedles Bernie into sharing another bottle of shiraz with her, she’s not ready to head back to the hotel quite yet. Bernie never takes that much convincing, anyway, which is one of Serena’s favourite things about her.

“Did I hear correctly that you two have started working together,” Jac asks, sipping a martini.

“We have indeed,” Serena says. “Imagine how I felt when I looked up into the face of my new trauma locum and it was Bernie.”

“Now that’s some luck,” Jac says.

“Definitely,” Serena agrees.

The whole group marvels at the coincidence, and Serena gamely speaks for both of them about how delighted they are to be working together. When she glances over at Bernie part-way through the conversation, she gets one of those fleeting little half smiles and Serena feels very lucky indeed.

* * *

On Sunday, Bernie wakes up early, goes for her run, stops off by the bakery. They’ve started to recognise her, there. It’s always the same girl working the front counter—she confided in Bernie one morning that she’s the newest employee and that’s why she’s been stuck with the weekend morning shifts. She knows Bernie’s order by heart now, two doubleshot lattes and two pastries (though Bernie does sometimes change up which pastries she gets).

“Nice to see you again,” she tells Bernie that morning.

“You too,” Bernie says, accepting the food and drink with thanks and leaving a generous tip

“I’m going to have to bring you a coffee at work one of these days,” Serena says when they’re on the coach later “pay you back for my early morning fix.”

“I thought maybe you might be expecting me to jog over to your place every weekend after Bake Off is done,” Bernie replies. “Seeing as I’ve gotten you used to this sort of treatment.”

“Ooh, that’s a fair point. You wouldn’t want me to go through acute pastry withdrawal after all.”

“Certainly not, I’ve heard the symptoms are just brutal.”

They share a laugh over that, and Bernie thinks that maybe once this whole thing is over she’ll have to do just that. Not only for Serena’s sake, but for her own.

“Morning bakers and welcome to your Dessert Week showstopper challenge!” Sue greets them, full of energy.

“Today, we are asking you to make a three tiered cake,” Mel says.

“Now, this is not just any three tiered cake,” Sue says. “C’mon now! You don’t think we’d make it that easy did you?” They all laugh and she continues. “These three tiers have some specific requirements for the sponge. One must be vegetable based, one must be gluten free, and one must be a war cake, meaning it cannot have any milk, butter, or eggs.”

“The decorations,” Mel continues, “have no such constraints, and the icing used on the cakes can include anything you would like.”

“That being said, the cakes should look impressive, inviting, even invigorating.”

“You have four and a half hours.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Precision and speed is what’s needed today. Four and a half hours may seem like a lot, but considering all they have to get done, well, it’s not. Bernie gets started right away by grating her aubergine.

“Now that’s an interesting ingredient to see,” Mary says as she comes up to Bernie’s bench, Paul and Mel not far behind her.

“It is, isn’t it?” Bernie agrees. “I was quite sceptical when I tried it myself.”

“This is for your vegetable cake I’m assuming?”

“Yes, it’s interesting but it tastes rather like a carrot cake but considerably more moist,” Bernie explains. “Then for my gluten free cake I’m making a chocolate avocado cake. And for the war cake a fairly traditional boiled raisin cake. They’ll all be iced with French buttercream: coconut, chocolate, and lemon respectively, and then covered in fondant.”

“French buttercream makes for a very rich frosting,” Paul notes.

“It does,” Bernie agrees, “it’s very stable as well, I find, which makes it perfect for use with fondant.”

“Are you using an alternative flour in your gluten-free cake?” Mary asks, “or is it completely flourless?”

“I am using a flour, yes, I’ve tried a few times with my own mixes but in the end I’ve actually gotten the best result from just a basic gluten-free all-purpose mix.”

“You’ve tried a few times then?”

“A few, yeah,” Bernie says with a little laugh. “I made these three times the past week, for practice. I think my co-workers are getting sick of cake.”

“We did hear,” Mary says, “that you and Serena are co-workers all of a sudden?”

“Yes. Yeah. A bit of a shock, that was, coming in on my first day and seeing her.”

“And of course no one knows that you two know each other from here,” Paul interjects.

“They don’t. They might cotton on though, just from the sheer volume of baked goods we’re both bringing in.”

The judges laugh at that, then move on, and Bernie gets the rest of the mix together. Self-raising flour, sugar, spices, vanilla extract, oil, eggs, and milk all get mixed in to form a simple batter. She weighs out the mix into two tins, pops them in the oven, and moves on. The nice thing about cakes is they can go into the oven as soon as the batter is ready and the oven’s free. Next she starts on the boiled raisin cake. It starts with combining raisins, brown sugar, water, lard, cinnamon, and cloves in a saucepan and bringing them to a boil. She boils that for about five minutes and then pulls it off the heat. While she waits for that mixture to cool, she works on her third cake mix. The chocolate avocado cake is essentially a simple chocolate cake, with the substitution of gluten-free flour and the addition of avocado. It makes for a beautifully moist cake almost fudgy in consistency, and stands as one of the few recipes Bernie has tried where the substitution of gluten-free flour is nigh unnoticeable. She gets her eggplant cakes out of the oven, switches them for the two pans of chocolate cake. Once the boiled raisin mixture has cooled, she folds in self-raising flour and fills two prepared pans.

She waits for her first sponges to cool, then cuts each of them in half, taking care to make the layers even and neat. She swaps the next cakes out of the oven, and then starts on her frostings.

French buttercream is made much like Italian meringue buttercream with a sugar syrup heated to soft-ball stage poured into a whipped egg mixture. However while Italian meringue buttercream uses whipped egg whites, French buttercream uses the yolks.

Bernie starts by putting sugar and water in a saucepan and placing it on the hob over high heat. While it heats, she stirs the mixture until the sugar is dissolved, then leaves it be with a candy thermometer in the syrup to measure the heat. While she works, she explains a bit of the science behind her actions to a nearby camera.

“You see, uh, while you cook a sugar syrup the water boils away,” she says, “which means the concentration of sugar increases and the temperature rises. The max temp of the mixture lets you know how the syrup will act when it cools. So soft-ball stage, which is, um, what I’m looking for today means that if you were to drop a bit of it into cold water the sugar would form a soft ball. Which is, about 115 degrees.”

While the sugary syrup heats, Bernie beats egg yolks in a mixer until they’re thick and foamy. When the syrup reaches the correct heat, Bernie pours it slowly into a mixture while the machine continues to beat it. It’s a bit of a trick, getting the sugar syrup poured in in a thin yet steady stream into the egg mixture but not hitting the wire whip or the side of the bowl where the sugar would harden immediately, but she manages it. While the sugar syrup gets whipped into the egg yolks, they grow considerably in volume. She continues to beat the mixture until the outside of the bowl is cooled to the touch. Then she adds the butter, a little bit at a time. To have enough to cover both cakes, she has to make two batches of the buttercream, when she has she divides the lot into three and flavours them. Coconut for one, lemon for another, and melted couverture chocolate for the last.

“Halfway through the challenge, bakers!” Sue cries out. “I know it sucks but, c’est la guerre!”

Bernie pulls her last cakes out of the oven and sets them to cool, then makes her fondant. She kneads the fondant until it’s smooth, then kneads in the colour. She splits the fondant into three, dyes them each a different shade of blue: pale, medium, and dark.

She sets the fondant aside, and gets on assembling her cakes. Bernie cuts her last four cakes, each into halves, and judges them cool enough to be iced.. She starts with the aubergine cake, sandwiches the four layers with coconut icing, then crumb coats the cake. She sets it in the fridge to rest for a bit, then does the same for the chocolate cake with the chocolate icing and then the boiled raisin cake and the lemon icing.

Sue swings by Bernie’s bench and steals a discarded spatula and the empty bowl of the chocolate buttercream. She takes great delight in picking a hefty bit of the frosting, groaning when the taste hits her tongue.

“God!” she tells Bernie, “you don't happen to need a roommate do you? Or a live-in taste tester?”

“Roommate?” Bernie replies with a grin. “Really? That’s what you’re looking for?”

“I’ll get on my knees and propose right here,” Sue says. “If I know you’re going to say yes. I'm sure one of those icing bag couplers would do as a ring if push comes to shove.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“The type of incorrigible you’d let live in your house and ply with baked goods all day?”

“You wish.”

Sue moves on and Bernie sets to getting another layer of icing on each of the cakes and then covering them in the fondant. She smooths out any irregularities and trims off the bottom, then sets the cakes on a cake stand of three separate tiers. The last step is to whip up a quick royal icing and pipe a delicate lace design onto each of the cakes. It’s precision work, means she has to bend over her bench at an angle to be close enough, and she can feel her hands cramping, her back screaming in agony. She gets the very last dot done just as Sue calls out the end of the challenge.

There’s a quick break for interviews before the judging and Bernie finds herself wiping sweat from her brow as she steps outside. It’s amazing the amount of stress they’re under in that tent considering that, at the end of the day, it’s just cakes. Still, she tries to give her best opinion of how she did to the camera before they’re all herded back into the tent for the judging.

Jac’s up first. Her three tiers are a beetroot chocolate cake, gingerbread depression cake, and orange gluten-free polenta cake. They’ve all been iced in the very current naked cake style with a cream cheese Swiss meringue buttercream frosting. The first two tiers get top marks from the judges, though the texture of the polenta cake leaves something to be desired. Jac of course gets top marks for the look of them though. Mo’s three tiers are on a separated cake stand, iced in delicate pink strawberry Swiss meringue buttercream. They are composed of a sweet pea vanilla cake, a mango crazy cake, and a gluten free blueberry cake with sorghum flour. Neither of the judges are impressed with the look of them, Paul calling the whole lot ‘a bit of a mess’, and Mary charitably going with ‘informal’. Flavour is a winner all around though, and all three cakes are beautifully moist, even if the gluten free one bears a slightly dense crumb.

Serena heads up next, her spiced beetroot cake, chocolate wacky cake, and gluten free lemon drizzle cake (made with mashed potatoes), are all stacked and iced in a vanilla Italian meringue buttercream. The buttercream has been dyed three different shades of purple, the top tier dark purple petals, the middle tier a pale purple as smooth as fondant, and the bottom tier a medium purple of gorgeous buttercream rosettes. It’s clean, beautiful, and very impressive. The judges applaud the presentation, and then go on to decide that the cakes win top marks for flavour and texture as well. Bernie shares a quick smile with Serena as she returns to her bench and Bernie’s called up for her own judging.

The presentation of her cakes is well-received overall, the judges like the simplicity of the fondant and the white lace decorations. As well, all three cakes are found to be beautifully moist. The boiled raisin cake could’ve used the slightest bit longer in the oven, but overall the cakes and their accompanying icings get a good review all around.

Raf’s three tiers are iced in a simple mint buttercream that covers his three chocolate cakes: a chocolate carrot cake, chocolate depression cake, and flourless hazelnut chocolate cake. The judges love it, save for the chocolate depression cake that ended up just a tad over-baked. It’s been a rough weekend for Raf and Bernie wonders if he’s done enough to make it through to the next round.

Dom heads up last, with three vanilla cakes iced in three different berry Swiss meringue buttercreams. He has a spinach vanilla cake with raspberry buttercream, a vanilla depression cake with blackberry buttercream, and a vanilla coconut flour cake with strawberry buttercream. He has covered over each in a layer of white fondant, only exposing the colour of the icing when the cake is cut into. It’s a look the judges hedge over whether they like it, and they inform Dom that the look of it upon first inspection is just too plain for a showstopper challenge. Still, his cakes taste good and are well-baked, though Paul seems to think the flavours leave somewhat to be desired in terms of complexity.

“I just don’t think it’s enough for a showstopper challenge,” Paul tells Dom, “it’s good, but at this stage we’re not just looking for good, we’re looking for exceptional.”

Dom takes the criticism with grace and they all trail out of the tent. It’s time for interviews, a break, and a chance to taste their bakes. Bernie’s quickly learned that the home economists have a tough time getting those little bits of baking to the contestants before the crew demolishes them all, and she’s grateful that this week they were able to squirrel away enough that everyone gets to try a little piece of everything. Bernie sits around on the lawn with the others, eating cake, enjoying the sun, and discussing who they think will be star baker this week.

It takes a long while for Paul and Mary to make their decision, unsurprisingly considering how well everyone did, overall. It’ll be a close one, and it’s well into the late afternoon before they’re all called back into the tent. Bernie sits on one end of the line of stools and waits the verdict.

She’s saddened to hear that Mo won’t be joining them for another week, and then absolutely ecstatic when Serena gets star baker. Very well deserved indeed, Bernie thinks.

The drive back to Holby that night is joyous. They’re both tired from the weekend, but both brimming with excitement at Serena’s success. Between singing along to particular songs that come on the radio, they rehash their weekend and discuss the week ahead of them. The trauma bay is ready to go and will be formally opened on Monday, opening them up to a whole new experience, a red phone that could go off at any time, a wealth of possibilities that they will face together. It’s with a slight pang of disappointment that Bernie drops Serena off at her car, left for the weekend in Holby’s car park. She’s tired and ready to get home, but Bernie feels like she’d have been completely content if that drive had gone on for hours.

Once she’s at home she makes herself a simple dinner, then heads to her living room with the latest Lancet. Curled up on her sofa with a glass of wine she finds herself picking up her phone and typing out a text—working with Serena means having her number, a freedom of communication she wasn’t afforded before.

‘Evening going well?’ she sends. Less than a minute later her phone buzzes with a response. Bernie nearly chokes on her drink when she sees it. Serena has sent her a photo, a wineglass in the forefront and behind it Serena’s legs—her gorgeous, shapely legs—poking out of a bath.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ she’s written underneath. ‘You?’

It’s not that odd of a response, Bernie figures after she’s managed to catch her breath. Obviously it’s something Serena feels completely natural about sending, but to Bernie it acts a stark reminder of just how attractive her friend is. Not that she needed reminding.

She sends a photo back—much less titillating in nature—of her glass of scotch and the article she’s reading in The Lancet. A moment later her phone starts buzzing insistently and Bernie looks at the screen to see that Serena’s calling her.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Serena says before Bernie can offer a greeting.

“Sorry?”

“You just got back from a weekend of baking non-stop and immediately started reading journals.”

“It’s a very good article I’ve been meaning to get to for a while, about trauma care and developing effective trauma treatment systems.”

“No I can’t accept this,” Serena says. “I can’t be friends with a swot.”

“I’m not—”

“Were you like this in school too? The one who never came out dancing because she was busy studying for her anatomy exam.”

“Well…”

“Oh lord! When was the last time you did something for fun Bernie?”

“Bake Off is fun,” Bernie protests.

“And also incredibly stressful. I mean just for fun.”

“We went out for drinks last week.”

“Before that?”  
“Okay, okay,” Bernie admits, would be throwing her hands up in the air were Serena here to see it. “You got me. I’m a boring person, Serena.”

“Ah well, nothing that can’t be fixed.”

“I’m  _very_ boring.”

“I was well-known back in the day, I could take the most boring bookish girl in the school and make her a fun-loving party girl in a fortnight.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“Mmm, I had a nickname too.”

“From the sound of it, I’d bet you had a couple.”

Serena laughs long and hard at that.

“True enough. But they used to call me Serena Ballerina.”

“You danced?”

“Only ever in close proximity to poles.” And  _that_ is not a visual that Bernie needed. Ever. In the absence of the knowledge of what exactly that would look like her imagination is swift to supply an endless number of possibilities, each more scintillating than the last, and Bernie has to mentally chide herself for thinking of her friend that way.

“Well that is something I can assure you I won’t be doing.”

“Don’t worry, those days, and that range of flexibility, is long behind me. But I still do know how to have a good time.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“What about dating?” Serena changes tracks suddenly and Bernie struggles to follow.

“Wha—”

“I mean, you've been divorced for a while, are you telling me you haven’t gotten yourself back out there?”

“Oh, um, not really. A couple of times but it was… I don’t know, so much effort? Aren’t you supposed to just meet ‘the one’ in your twenties and then never have to go through the whole dating rigmarole again?”

“Thankfully not! Otherwise I’d still be married to my bastard of an ex-husband. And don’t act like you’d be happier if you were still married.”

“Well, okay, no. It’d be easier though, perhaps,” and that’s the root of it, isn’t it? Life with Marcus was straightforward, expected, and in many ways easy, but that doesn’t mean it was good or right.

“What was it like in the beginning? Dating Marcus I mean?”

“Oh it was… Um, I mean it wasn’t bad. He was sweet. Just like—oh no that’s cruel.”

“Please don’t hold back on my account.”

“He’s not a bad man.”

“I’m sure he isn’t. But one of the true joys of being divorced is you can say whatever the hell you’d like about your ex. Especially to your girlfriends.”

“Alright. He was, well, sort of like a puppy. Very sweet and eager but you know, you were always a little worried he might piddle on your shoe.”

“A ringing endorsement.”

“Well…”

“He was expected. I understand. It was what you needed.”

“Mmm,” Bernie agrees, wondering how Serena understands her so effortlessly?

“Do you wish it had been different? Do you think about what life would’ve been like if you had known, if you had been able to be out right from the start?”

“Oh,” Bernie doesn’t quite know how to answer that. “I don’t… I mean. I wouldn’t have my kids. I’d go through it all a hundred times over to have Cameron and Charlotte.”

“Of course.”

“But other than that? I’ve thought about it. It—I mean what I did, how I—it wasn’t fair to Marcus, that’s for sure.”

“It wasn’t fair to you either.”

“Hmm, yeah. But I don’t know. The world is so different now, it’s not, I mean, when we were young it would have been so radical. There was, I mean, you couldn’t really have a ‘normal’ life could you?”

“Definitely not like now, but that doesn’t mean that all the gay people pre the new millennium were miserable.”

“True. But.. I don’t think I would’ve been brave enough. I was barely brave enough to, uh, come out in 2012. In 1982? I don’t think so.”

“I’m glad you found the courage.”

“Um, thanks.”

“I do like it when my friends are happy.”

“So we’re still friends? Despite my boring tendencies?”

“Oh yes. The boring I can fix, but you have an ability to drink shiraz that almost matches my own.”

Bernie’s laugh turns into a yawn halfway through—the perils of too much baking and too little sleep.

“Go to bed Ms. Wolfe,” Serena says. “We have a trauma bay to open tomorrow.”

“You too Ms. Campbell, we both need to be in fighting form for that red phone.”


	12. Chocolate Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry about no chapter on Friday, I was driving a province over to go to my nephew's first birthday party and it's a twelve hour drive back each way. I drove back Sunday though, so I was able to find time to get this chapter edited and up.  
> I have two midterms this week so don't expect anything from me Friday either, but I'll make sure I have next chapter for next Monday (the semi-finals!)  
> thanks to everyone who's still reading this!!

“Come for dinner tomorrow.”

It’s the first thing Serena says when Bernie walks into the office on Tuesday morning and it takes Bernie a couple of seconds to get her bearings.

“Sorry?” she says.

“Dinner,” Serena repeats. “My place. Tomorrow night. I want you to finally meet Elinor and Jason.”

“O-okay,” Bernie agrees. “I’d like that.”

With the construction of the trauma bay complete, she has to create formal copies of all the guidelines and procedures that they will use. It will then be put in a binder for reference on the ward and for new hires, with copies going to Ms. Grayson and the board. It’s one of the most important things that Bernie brings to the table as a trauma specialist, and it mirrors the work she did in Kiev last fall. Still, despite the fact that Bernie has the experience with trauma, the procedures still require considerable input from Serena, and so they spend much of their day in the office working together.

Bernie finds that they have different approaches to the work but similar end goals, so they collaborate well. She spends Wednesday concentrated on the same job, though the boredom of the day is punctuated by the first ringing of the red phone. She and Serena deal with it side by side, decide to do the operation together. It’s impressive, the way they work in theatre. Bernie has always felt herself to be an individual surgeon, she wants to show up, get the job done, and will use the help of others should she need it, but she’s never particularly wanted another surgeon in theatre with her.

It’s different with Serena but, oh, isn’t everything?

Really though, the ease with which they work together is incredibly impressive. It’s as though they can read each other’s minds, always exactly where the other person needs them to be, and so there’s a sort of synergy to their actions that makes it a particular joy. They complement each other well, and between the both of them their knowledge and experience is vast enough that they’re able to succeed at even the trickiest of procedures.

Also, surgery with Serena is just plain fun. They have all sorts of lovely chats considering that they’re standing with an open body before them, and Serena’s wit is even sharper in theatre than in a bar with a hefty glass of shiraz. They pull off a difficult surgery that day and Bernie feels warm, complete.

When five o'clock rolls around, Bernie gets in her car and follows Serena back to her house.

“You’re Doctor Bernie!” the enthusiastic young man who greets them at the door can only be Jason.

“I am,” Bernie replies. “Very nice to finally meet you Jason.”

“Your hair is better than Auntie Serena said,” he says immediately.

“Oh,” Serena sounds flustered at that, “don’t—that’s not what I meant.”

Bernie just smiles and nods, reaches a hand up to her hair on instinct. Can’t imagine what Serena could possibly have had to say about it.

When Bernie originally thought about this evening—and think of it she did—she assumed that she would hang out in the kitchen with Serena while she cooked, but she ends up sitting at the dining room table with Jason. He has a list. An actual (very adorable) written out list of questions that range from her children, to Bake Off, to her career, and spends quite a lot of time on the army and her workout regimen and just how much she can lift. Jason apparently has a great love of World’s Strongest Man, and he checks Bernie’s answers about her PRs on deadlift, squat, and bench press against a chart, making notations in the margins and humming in appreciation when she says she can bench 80 kilos.

She doesn’t see Elinor until the meal’s on the table and Serena calls her down. She’s a pretty girl, looks so like her mum in a lot of ways and Bernie can’t help but imagine what Serena looked like at 22. She doesn’t seem very taken with Bernie, has that bored affect that Bernie recognises from having raised teenagers herself (though Cam was always the bigger culprit than Charlotte). Where Jason was bursting with questions to ask her, Elinor seems to mostly be pretending that she doesn’t exist.

Still Bernie held no expectation that Elinor would adore her immediately—Bernie doesn’t think she’s expected someone to like her immediately, well, ever—so she’s content with the fact that she’s polite and answers Bernie questions, even if her tone is cool, slightly dismissive. She tells Bernie about her work as an office assistant, no doubt to pay off the debt she racked up when she was using Bernie thinks, tells Bernie that she doesn’t yet know whether or not she’d like to go back to school.

“Well, school isn’t for everyone,” Bernie says, hopes her tone is kind, “there are many paths to a career, and sometimes getting work experience is the best way to go about it.” Elinor sort of snorts at that, doesn’t say anything in reply and Bernie catches Serena’s eye across the table, gives her a little shrug and gets a warm smile in response.

When the meal’s over, finished off with a piece of cake that Bernie knows Serena’s been baking in preparation for the weekend, Elinor and Jason start the washing up and Bernie and Serena retire to the porch with a bottle of shiraz.

“They’re lovely Serena,” Bernie says when they’re both seated on the porch swing, pressed together from shoulder to ankle, “you should be very proud.”

“Elinor left a little to be desired this evening,” Serena replies, her voice weary.

“Hey, she’s 22, I wouldn’t expect anyone her age to immediately warm up to their mum’s friend.”

“So when I meet Charlotte I should expect the same treatment?” Serena asks wryly.

“Mmm, no,” Bernie says solemnly, “Charlotte will be fine. Cameron was always the snarky one in our house.”

“Ahhh. Good to know; I’ll keep it in mind.”

They fall silent for a spell, sitting and listening to the creak of the porch swing as they drink their wine.

“What were you like when you were younger?” Bernie asks finally, hasn’t been able to get the thought out of her head since seeing Elinor.

“Oh. Goodness. I don’t quite... Power-hungry? Driven? Always convinced that I was right… Demanding, of myself and of others.” She huffs out a breath, “which is probably why Elinor, well, I don’t think I was a very good mother in the midst of all that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Serena, you’re a great mum.”

“Hmph, well,” Serena’s voice is brusque, “I’m fairly certain your child ending up a drug addict is about first or second on the list of ways to tell if you were an awful parent.”

“I… No, I wouldn’t say that,” Bernie protests. Wonders how someone as warm, as incredible as Serena could ever think of herself as a failure. In this or in anything else. She bites her lip, “I think, um, that all parents have failings. Uh, I mean, that’s human nature, but what really matters is, well, what you do to repair the things you mucked up when you have the chance.”

“That’s remarkably emotionally astute of you,” Serena says but she still sounds withdrawn.

“Mmm,” Bernie hums in agreement, “Eight months of weekly cognitive behavioural therapy will do that to a person.” She looks at the wine left in her glass, at how it catches the light of the setting sun. “Anyone can make mistakes, and Elinor did, and that’s not on you, that’s on her. But, Serena, you were there for her when she needed you. You were there at the hardest of times, and, um, well as far as I’m concerned that says more about you as a mother than anything else.”

“Oh Bernie,” Serena breathes out, nudges the back of her hand against Bernie’s and twines their fingers together, “how do you always know the right thing to say?”

Bernie doesn’t speak, just looks at their hands. She’s certainly never felt as though she’s saying the right thing, chooses generally not to say anything at all, but for Serena she’ll at least try.

They’re silent a while longer, Serena leans her head over to rest on Bernie’s shoulder and then speaks again.

“So I answered you, but tell me Bernie Wolfe. What were you like when you were younger?”

“Oh, um, well… Driven, certainly. Repressed, anxious… I guess always felt like I was running away from something or another.”

“Interesting,” Serena says, “and now?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you still feel like you’re running away?”

“I—” the question takes Bernie by surprise because, well, certainly she always had felt that way. That restless need to move on, to go, to never settle, never stop. And for what? Fear that stopping would mean looking at her life and she wouldn't like what she saw? “I think,” she says with a gruff little laugh, “I think I'm getting older and a little more tired, and it might be nice, at some point, to take a rest.”

Serena doesn't say anything to that and Bernie's grateful. She doesn't really want to confront what she's just said, the words tumbled out of her like words always do around Serena but it's a thought that bears some dwelling on before she'll be ready to accept it head on. Serena seems to know, somehow, she just moves her head in a little closer to Bernie’s neck, holds Bernie's fingers a little tighter, and Bernie lets herself match her breaths with Serena: slow and steady, and not think about anything but how nice and warm she feels right now.

When it's getting to be full dark outside, they go back in. Bernie needs to get home; she’ll be up late tonight practicing her bakes but it was worth it. Before she leaves she excuses herself for a moment, asks Serena which room upstairs is Elinor’s and heads up there, shakes her head at Serena’s questioning look. She knocks softly, waits for a reply before she opens the door and goes in.

Elinor is obviously surprised to see her, and she gives Bernie a look that Bernie knows stands for a withering ‘what the hell do you want?’ Bernie just shrugs.

“Before I left I wanted to give you this,” she holds out a scrap of paper and Elinor takes it, looks confused.

“What’s this?” she asks, tone bordering on derisive.

“It’s my mobile number,” Bernie says simply.

“And you’re giving it to me because…?”

“Um,” Bernie shrugs, tries for a smile, “look, Elinor, your mum told me about the, er, trouble you’ve been through the past year. This is just so if you happen to be in a situation where you need help, any sort of help, really, then, well, you can give me a ring. Or text. Whatever.”

Elinor looks at her curiously, turns the piece of paper over in her hands.

“Huh,” she says. “Right.”

“I just wanted you to have the option,” Bernie says lamely.

“Would you keep it a secret?” Elinor asks then.

“Within reason,” Bernie replies after a moment.

“What sort of reason?”

“Well, if you were, say, in immediate danger of harming yourself or others I would be forced to break confidence,” Bernie says. “But otherwise… I could, yes.”

“You wouldn’t tell anyone?” Elinor voice is filled with suspicion.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Bernie tells her.

“Not even my mum?” Elinor pushes.

“Not if you didn’t want me to.”

“Okay,” Elinor says finally.

“Okay?”

“Well don’t expect a daily good morning text,” she says flippantly, “but I will keep your number. Not that you’d be my first call of course. There are loads of people I’d try first.”

“Of course,” Bernie agrees.

“But  _if_ they were all unavailable then…”

“Then you would have my number.”

“Right.”

“It was lovely to finally meet you Elinor,” Bernie says as she leaves.

* * *

The week goes smoothly, the regular strenuous hours of work on the ward punctuated by the excitement of the red phone ringing. Serena is finding that working with Bernie is at least as good as being in the tent with Bernie, perhaps even better. Here they get to work together rather than against each other after all. In theatre their abilities complement each other perfectly, Serena has never been as in sync with a fellow surgeon. Bernie’s hands are where she needs them to be often before she’s asked and they take great delight in each other’s skills. Serena’s often thought surgery to be like a sort of dance: all the training and choreography in the world can’t compensate for being in tune with your partner, being able to anticipate their moves before they happen.

Watching Bernie work is… impressive. Serena’s always been interested in trauma surgery and Bernie is unquestionably skilled in the area. Though occasionally it seems closer to construction than surgery (plates and screws and whopping big drills aren’t things Serena typically associates with theatre), Serena loves watching the way she wields these myriad tools to such therapeutic ends.  And Bernie in turn defers to Serena’s expertise with vascular surgery—somehow, even, seems just as awed by Serena’s talents as Serena is by hers.

Outside of theatre they fit just as well together, Serena’s cleared off the other desk in her office so Bernie has a space to work and she likes it. She likes looking up sometimes and seeing Bernie’s unbrushed curls lit up by the sun as she’s bent over paperwork of some type. It’s nice to have someone to whisper little joking asides to, nice to have someone who feels truly like her ally in a hospital where Serena has often felt isolated and adrift, supported only through complex power plays and a web of traded favours, never just because someone has her best interests at heart.

And it’s nice to have Bernie around to hit up Albie’s at the end of the day for a drink, someone who will match Serena glass for glass with shiraz, share a shy little smile with her over the brim of the glass. They don’t always have time for it: each often rushing home to practice their bakes. But they go whenever they can, laugh to each other about how if one of them is ousted that week they’ll blame it on all the late nights and wine. It gives Serena a warm little glow in the pit of her stomach. Something she hasn’t felt in, oh, ages. Something about having a best friend, a Bernie, that fills her up with joy.

Friday of chocolate week comes early, Serena finds herself in the office at seven-thirty, unable to stay abed a moment longer. She pops down to Pulses just before eight so that even though she’ll be busy on the ward doing rounds, there’s a coffee waiting on Bernie’s desk for when she gets in. At nine the red phone rings. At eleven it rings again. By four both she and Bernie are exhausted, and she’s had to leave the ward in the hands of Mr. Aboud, her thankfully very competent registrar, all day. Four-thirty the phone rings again and Serena feels like hurling the stupid red thing against the wall. This last case is the nastiest of all, an accident on a construction site where an employee ended up in the blind spot of a JCB leading to massive puncture and crush injuries from the bucket. It’s godawful, it really is, and she and Bernie do everything in their power to save the man. He codes three times on the table and the last time they can’t get him back.

Time of death is seventeen thirty three.

Serena has to take a moment, standing at the sink in the scrub room. She grips the edge tight and breathes deep, tries to shoulder past the hurt, the anger, the frustration. Being a surgeon requires a degree of separation, but Serena always wants to save the patient and it always hurts when she doesn’t manage it. Suddenly though, a damp hand covers her, pulling her attention back to the moment and she looks up, shaken, into Bernie’s worried face.

“You okay?” she asks quietly. After a moment, Serena nods.

“Will be,” she says, her voice a little shaky.

“I fucking hate it every single time I lose someone,” Bernie offers and Serena doesn’t know if she’s ever heard her swear like that before. “It’s part of the job and you have to accept it, I know, but it doesn’t lessen the blow.”

“It really doesn’t,” Serena agrees. Thinks again how nice it is to be around someone who always seems to understand.

They make their way out of the city on time this week, drive down to Bath content with the low hum of the radio, the sound of wheels on the road. Neither feels the need to talk. Still something about just sitting there with Bernie bolsters Serena’s mood, and she’s feeling better by the time they pull up to the hotel. She gets out of the car, squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, moves on. Just like she always does on days like today.

They meet up with the rest of the group, not many of them left now, and they head out to a Vietnamese restaurant nearby. The food is delicious, the place not too busy for a Friday evening, and they feel comfortable speaking about the competition in low voices in the booth in the corner. There’s very much the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken understanding that one of them will not make it through this round of the competition, that the others will continue on by the grace of the one’s failure.

Still, the fact that they’re in competition has never stopped them from being friends previously and they are by all means closer than ever. The quarter finals will come and go but Serena feels sure that they will all see each other after this entire event is over.

She and Bernie stay up late into the evening, at a wine bar Bernie noticed on one of her morning runs the weekend before. Their shiraz selection is impressive and Serena happily indulges, gleefully tugs Bernie with her through bottle after bottle, teasing her mercilessly about the fact that, without her, Bernie would be having absolutely no fun at all.

“True,” Bernie agrees as Serena empties the last of a bottle into her glass, “I would be a lot more boring without you, but my liver would probably be a lot happier with me.”

“Oh pish,” Serena replies, lays her hand on Bernie’s thigh as she leans in close, “if you’re that worried I’ll run LFTs on you on Monday.”

“I’d like to run them on you,” Bernie retorts, “heaven knows what state your liver’s in at this point.”

“Oh please, I’m just keeping my liver fit. Wouldn’t want it to get rusty from disuse,” Serena tells her.

“I’m not sure I remember that from my anatomy classes.”

“Come now, if people get to go around doing ridiculous ‘cleanses’ to rid their bodies of phantom toxins I can certainly take my own measures to ensure my liver’s doing its job.”

“Are you suggesting a new health fad Ms. Campbell? A shiraz cleanse?”

“Now that’s an idea,” Serena says with a smile as she clinks her glass against Bernie’s.

It’s well past midnight by the time they leave, Serena knows she’s been getting closer and closer to Bernie all night. Somehow on nights like this she can’t help but touch Bernie (a comforting hand on a shoulder, a grasp of the hand, her fingers laid gently on a knee) any distance between them too much. It feels like just her and Bernie separated from the rest of the world in a warm cocoon. Thankfully Bernie doesn’t seem to mind, and Serena finds her leaning closer rather than away, an implicit acceptance of Serena’s actions.

They walk back to the hotel arm-in-arm, don’t relinquish their hold on each other until Bernie leaves Serena at her door. Serena’s traitorous brain can’t help but wish to invite Bernie in, ask her to hold her as she sleeps, thinks she would sleep better in her warm embrace. Sleeping alone is the thing Serena hates most about being single. She laughs a little while she closes the door behind her: how funny the sort of thoughts her wine-addled mind throws out.

The next morning Bernie shows up as usual with pastries and lattes in hand. Serena feels more prepared for the day as soon as she opens the door to warm brown eyes and timid smile, is glad for the coffee and pastry that bolsters her to start her day. On the coach she sits next to Bernie even though there are empty seats all around them, they ride to Prior Park talking in low voices about what they expect from the day.

It’s the usual morning routine once they arrive, quicker every week, and they have a brief interview about how they feel being in the quarterfinals before they file into the tent.

The first challenge of the weekend is a triple chocolate cake. The judges are looking for at least three different applications of chocolate in the bake, and of course as this is the quarter final Serena knows their standards will be higher than ever. They’ll have three hours for the cakes.

At Sue’s piercing cry of ‘bake’, Serena puts a saucepan on the hob and turns the heat to medium high. She places her butter in the pan, then adds the stout. This was the first thing that drew her in when she first found this recipe: equal parts booze and butter is, in Serena’s opinion, a damn good way to start just about anything.

While the butter melts and the mixture comes to a light simmer, she sifts the majority of her dry ingredients into a separate bowl. She sets the stand mixer to beating the eggs and sour cream together, then whisks cocoa powder into the mixture in the saucepan and removes the lot from the heat to cool slightly. She grabs another, massive bowl to mix everything together. She pours the contents of the saucepan into the bowl, then adds the egg mixture. She beats them together vigorously before adding her dry ingredients in. She’s mixing it all together when the judges come by to speak with her.

“Wow,” says Mel as she comes up beside Paul and Mary. “That is a massive bowl.”

“It is, rather, isn’t it?” Serena replies. “I was worried there wouldn’t be one here large enough. It’s not a small cake, by any means.”

“I would imagine not.” That’s Paul, of course. “And what kind of cake is it?”

“So it’s a chocolate stout cake, with a milk chocolate and Irish cream Italian meringue buttercream, and a dark chocolate ganache over top. And then some chocolate hazelnut truffles for a garnish.”

He whistles.

“That sounds quite the treat,” Mary says, “how big is it when all’s said and done?”

Serena gestures with her hands and all three of them: Paul, Mary, and Mel look rather taken aback.

“Size isn’t everything,” Paul says and Serena barely stifles a snort, “make sure that you’ve got a good, even bake on everything. We won’t excuse messiness because of the size.”

And then Mary drags him away before he can give any more unsolicited ‘helpful advice’.

The cake fills three nine-inch cake pans perfectly and Serena can just barely fit all three pans into the oven to bake. They don’t have a ton of time on this cake, all things considered, and Serena needs to get her sponges baked and cooled as soon as possible. Once the sponges are baking and her timer’s been set, Serena moves on to working on her icings.

She starts by mixing and sugar in water in a saucepan over high heat, stirring until all the sugar has dissolved. Then she lets it be with a thermometer resting inside the saucepan to measure the temperature of the syrup. She gets her egg whites whisking in her stand mixer while the syrup gets up to where it needs to be, about 118 degrees. Once the egg whites are to the point of making stiff peaks and the syrup is hot is enough, she starts on the tricky job of pouring her sugar syrup into the egg whites without hitting either the whip or the side of the bowl while the machine continues to beat the eggs.

Seven egg whites get immense when the sugar is added like this, and a couple bits of meringue fly out onto her face and apron. She brushes them away with a laugh. Once the syrup is gone, she continues to beat the mixture until it’s cooled to the point that she can stick a finger in and keep it there. At that point, she adds both butter and shortening, little bits at a time, then pours in the irish cream and the melted chocolate.

She tastes a bit of the icing, can’t help but moan at the flavour. That’s the ticket right there. Italian meringue buttercream is soft and velvety smooth, rich without being too heavy, and just the perfect amount of sweet. She sets that bowl aside, and starts on the hazelnut truffles that will adorn the top of her cake. It is, after all the quarterfinals, and Serena knows she needs to impress.

The truffles are fairly simple, a mixture of ground hazelnuts, cocoa powder, vanilla extract, salt, and maple syrup rolled into balls with a singular hazelnut in the centre. She sets them in the fridge for a bit, she’ll dip them in melted chocolate and coat them in chopped hazelnuts later. Mel calls out that they’re halfway through the challenge, and Serena takes stock of where she’s at. She’s made pretty much everything she can make now; the ganache is a time sensitive creation and can’t be made ahead of time, so Serena finds herself kneeling in front of her oven until her cakes are done. Then she has to get them all cooled, quick as can be.

When they’re ready, she cuts each cake in half, making six layers, and then sets about the assembly. Each layer of the cake is sandwiched between coatings of the buttercream, once she’s done that Serena frosts the outside of the cake, taking care to get a nice smooth edge. She pops it into the fridge for a bit, and starts heating her cream for the ganache. Once the cream has come to a simmer, she pours it into a bowl over her chopped bits of chocolate, places a lid over the bowl, and waits for five minutes. Mel and Sue swing by to grab the bowl that once held the buttercream, and dash off across the tent each fighting the other for a chance to get a taste. Serena smiles at their antics, glad they’re there to lighten the often tense mood. After the five minutes have passed, she takes the lid off the bowl and starts whisking the ganache, working from the centre outwards, until smooth, in theory at least. This is Serena’s favourite method to make a ganache and it’s never failed her. Until today. She doesn’t know if it’s the heat of the milk or what but the ganache is cloudy and grainy and just isn't working well at well. She groans in frustration and bins the lot. She’ll have to start again.

She glances at the clock, knows this one is gonna be close as she sets a pan of milk on the stove once more. This time, Serena leaves the cream in with the chocolate for just a bit longer, and thank god this time the whole thing works. The ganache is smooth and beautiful, just as she’d expect.

She lets the ganache sit for about fifteen minutes while she finishes the truffles, and then she pours it in a glaze over the top of the cake, letting it artfully drip down the sides. On top, she pipes little dollops of buttercream, and on top of those she places the truffles. And then it’s done. The challenge is over and Serena is bid to set her cake at the end of her bench and step back.

Raf’s cake is judged first, a dark chocolate cake iced in a mint white chocolate Swiss buttercream and surrounded with beautifully shiny chocolate shards. His bake is good, taste even better, and the judges both praise it highly. It's a bit rough, whenever the first bake judged does really well, and knowing everything else will be judged against that high standard. Serena doesn't let that bug her though, and she attentively watches as the judges move on to Bernie.

Bernie’s marble milk and dark chocolate cake is two tiered, covered in a white chocolate buttercream and the bottom tier is wrapped in a lacy chocolate collar. The appearance of the cake gets high praise, the rest not so much. The judges find it dry, overbaked, and the sweetness of the icing does little to compliment the flavour of the sponge, overwhelming it instead and making the whole thing cloying.

Dom’s made a malt chocolate cake with malt icing, coated all around the sides with crushed malt balls and topped with ganache. The judges like the look of it, finding it to be charming in a casually artistic way, or so they say, and the taste goes over well too. The cake is a bit on the dry side, but the chocolate and malt flavours come through beautifully.

Jac is fourth, with a raspberry white chocolate cake with dark chocolate ganache between the layers, iced in alternating raspberry buttercream and milk chocolate buttercream swirls and topped with chocolate shards and fresh raspberries. It gets praise on all counts: look, taste, and bake and Mary deems the whole thing ‘a right winner all round’.

Last of all they come to Serena. Paul and Mary agree that the look is highly impressive, Paul taking the time to comment on the sheer size of the thing, suddenly much happier with the immensity of it all. Mary thinks it looks ‘very festive’, suitable for a party or other event. When they cut through the cake, Paul compliments the neat layers. Serena waits anxiously as they each take a bite and chew, then try a bit of one of her truffles.

“Oh that's scrummy,” Mary says right off the bat. “Very good flavour on the chocolate, nice moist sponge, and the perfect ratio icing to sponge.”

“That's a bit of alright there,” Paul says. “The sponge is beautifully moist, the buttercream impossibly smooth, and the way the flavours mix together… it's lovely.” And then of all things he's reaching out his hand for a handshake. It takes Serena a second to cotton on, to bring her hand up and meet his. The handshake is firm and brief, over almost before Serena realizes it's begun. And then Paul and Mary are walking away and Serena's left with her cake and a big smile on her face. She looks toward Bernie, can't resist doing a little wiggle of joy. A Paul Hollywood handshake. And in the quarterfinals at that. Not bad at all.

* * *

“Today,” Sue says after Paul and Mary have left the tent, “Paul and Mary are looking for you all to make Prinzregentorte.” Sue says the last word with emphasis.

“Yes that’s correct,” Mel says, “the famed Prinzregentorte.”

“They will be looking for even layers, and a nice shine on the chocolate.”

“You have two hours, bakers.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake.”

Bernie takes a look over the recipe. Right. So all she has to do is make seven layers of sponge, chocolate buttercream, apricot jam, and a perfectly tempered chocolate gaze in two hours. Totally completely reasonable. Not.

She sets to work. The recipe is unique in that it has given them more information than they’ve come to expect from Paul. Which, honestly isn’t really a good sign. If even Paul decided to give them more explicit directions it suggests that this cake is extremely fiddly.

‘Beat egg yolks with some of the sugar, salt, vanilla, and melted butter,’ is the first step. The second is to beat the egg whites with the remaining sugar and then add them together with the flour. Bernie melts the butter and lets it cool before adding it into the yolks and everything else. Hot butter could easily cook the yolks and Bernie’s assuming that Paul isn’t looking for his Prinz-whatever to taste like a chocolate quiche. She starts whisking the egg whites by hand while the mixer works on the yolk mixture. Bernie likes the rigor of whisking up by hand, is used to it from home where she doesn’t have any sort of machine to do the whisking and beating. She added a pinch of cream of tartar to the egg whites when she started, which helps to stabilise the egg whites and helps them whip up faster and hold their shape better. Once she has nice stiff peaks, she adds the sugar a little bit of time, then drizzles the cooled melted butter slowly into the egg yolk mix. She folds both of those mixtures together, then slowly sifts in the flour. She’s careful to fold the mixture gently—lest all the air she just whipped into the egg whites disappears—and not to overmix it. When that’s done, she doles it out between seven eight-inch round cake pans, taking time to weigh each one to ensure they have the same amount of mix.

The recipe (naturally) gives neither baking temperature nor time, she goes with about six minutes at 160, which turns into seven and a half minutes when she checks them. It’s tough with these sponges, they’re so thin that even twenty seconds here or there could ruin them.

The chocolate buttercream is the French buttercream style. The direction reads ‘make chocolate French buttercream’ and Bernie’s quite happy she knows exactly what she’s doing there as she hears Dom behind her tell Mel that he doesn’t know whether French buttercream mimics the process for Swiss or Italian.

Bernie gets her sugar syrup heating as she bakes her sponges (only three of which fit in the oven at once), starts whisking her egg yolks with the stand mixer, and sets some chocolate in a double boiler to start it melting. The recipe doesn’t say how much of the chocolate to use for each, so Bernie splits it in half between the glaze and the buttercream. She gets the buttercream made and set aside, pausing all the time to shuffle sponges in and out of the oven and getting them onto cooling racks as quickly as possible. While she waits for them to cool down to the point of being able to ice them, Bernie starts on her apricot jam.

This, too, needs to be made from scratch, and Bernie pits, peels, and crushes the apricots she’s been given before putting them in a saucepan over medium high heat with lemon juice and then adding sugar, stirring it while it heats so the sugar dissolves. Once it’s boiling, Bernie turns it down to an active simmer, taking time to stir it occasionally while it thickens. Bernie’s not great at jam, admittedly, she generally has trouble getting it to the correct thickness. For today she needs it thick enough to hold together, yet thin enough to easily be able to spread it over the cake.

The halfway point comes and goes, between sponges and buttercream and jam. Bernie prods her sponges, hoping to find them cooled to the touch. The blessing of how thin the layers are is that it happens quite quickly. With the encouragement of some wafting baking sheets (Mel stops by to give her a hand) Bernie has them cooled enough to assemble them quicker than she would’ve expected. She’s only got about twenty-five minutes left at this point and so she’s forced to move quickly, sponge, buttercream, more sponge. The layers turned out fairly even—not perfect—and Bernie tries to be as neat as possible. She knows Paul is going to be absolutely insufferable about neat even layers.

Once all the layers are together, Bernie frosts the sides of the cake, then stands there and dithers about whether or not to frost the top. The problem is she doesn’t know if the apricot glaze is supposed to be all over or just on the top, and she has no clue if the top is supposed to have buttercream and then apricot jam. She decides to go ahead and ice it, thinks that that’s what she’d expect from a cake like this.

Her jam finishes up about halfway through that process, and when the whole cake is assembled, Bernie checks the temperature and figures it’s cool enough to put the jam on. She decides to jam all over, top and sides, can do nothing but hope that that’s the right move.

The last step is the chocolate glaze, which calls for the remaining chocolate and 125ml of boiling water. No instructions or tips beyond that. Bernie melts the chocolate, pours in the boiling water all at once, whisking as she does so, and then lets it cool to thirty-two degrees before pouring it over the cake. The temperature will hopefully mean that the chocolate’s tempered properly. She tilts the cake so that the glaze coats it evenly, lets it stand on a rack and drip off excess glaze until the last possible moment.

When the end of the challenge is called out, Bernie walks her torte up and places it behind her photo on the gingham-clad table. It’s a bit weird this time, hard to judge how they all did, because of the nature of them being covered chocolate. The nice news is that every single one of them was able to get their chocolate tempered successfully, so all Bernie can see is five shiny cakes, anything beyond that won’t be discernible until the judging happens.

They have them do another interview, before the judging for the technical, and Bernie can’t help but notice that they’ve started doing more interview takes as the number of contestants has gone down—it makes sense, they’ll need more soundbites from each of them. But still, there’s only so many times she can smile and say something along the lines of ‘I baked my best and the rest is up to the judges’, her only hope is that she doesn’t sound like a total dolt when this finally airs. They file back into the tent for the judging of the technical, have a seat on the line of wooden stools and wait for Paul and Mary to come in.

They start at the one end, with Dom’s, and move on through. Dom’s sponges are overbaked, while Jac’s are the slightest bit under baked. Bernie and Dom both made the error of covering the entire cake in both buttercream and jam: the jam was supposed to go only in a thin layer on the top of the topmost sponge, with no buttercream between them. The judges pick at the tempering too, even though they’re all shiny, there are degrees of shine and only Raf and Serena seem to have satisfied the criteria for ‘shiny enough’. There’s no question at this point that the challenges are getting harder and the judging harsher. Paul and Mary aren’t happy with any of the layers of sponge, finding minute inconsistencies in each, complaining of either too little or too much buttercream in each layer. By the time they’ve finished lambasting the last cake Bernie has gone from thinking they all looked pretty good, to wondering if anyone got anywhere near what the judges were looking for.

She sits with her hands under her thighs so she doesn’t fidget while Paul and Mary take about an age and a half to decide who is placing where. She knows with her jam gaffe she won’t be doing all that well. And with only five contestants you’re never that far from the bottom. So she sits on the hard wooden stool and trades sympathetic grimaces with her fellow contestants. She catches Serena’s eye and gets a half-shrug and a momentary wink for her troubles. She gives a sort of ‘who knows’ look in response and Serena smiles. It does make Bernie feel better.

Finally Paul and Mary are done discussing, and Paul steps forward to deliver the final verdict.

“This one,” he says, gesturing to Dom’s bake, “is in fifth. The sponge was overbaked and we’ve already explained where you went wrong with the buttercream and jam. As well, your chocolate wasn’t quite to the shine we were looking for.”

“In fourth place,” Mary says, “is this one,” she steps up to Bernie’s cake and Bernie raises her hand to claim it as her own. “Again, the jam and buttercream were done wrong. An okay bake, but we would’ve liked slightly more even layers as well.”

“Next is this one,” Paul steps up to Jac’s spot. “Nice, even layers, good jam with the proper application and a nice shine on the chocolate, but the sponges could’ve used maybe a minute longer in the oven.”

“Second,” Mary says, moving over to Raf’s, “is this one. Good sponge, good jam, a nicely tempered glaze, but we would’ve liked to see a bit more precision with the thickness of the layers.”

“And that leaves this one,” Paul says stepping forward to gesture to Serena’s. They all clap, Bernie loudest of all. “It’s,” Paul dithers for a moment, “the closest any of you came to the real thing. Good sponge, nice layers, good jam, and a very nice shine on top. Well done Serena.”

They get interviewed again, Bernie does her best to be polite and optimistic about the situation, while conveying her disappointment effectively. She is, truly, very glad to be on the Great  _British_ Bake Off. Stiff meringues and stiffer upper lips, she and Charlotte always used to joke while watching past seasons. She can’t imagine being on one of those American cooking competition shows with the sobbing and the melodrama and the antagonism.

They file back into the tent immediately after the interviews, to the delightful sight of the crew members having a field day with the technical bakes. Obviously all the faults found by the judges has no effect whatsoever on their enjoyment of the Prinzregentortes.

“I’ll come right out and say it,” one of the camera operators says when he spies them come back in—Henry? No Harry. His thick Irish accent setting him apart from the others. “I like what you and Dom did the best, Bernie. Tastes much better with buttercream all over and then covered with jam.”

“Too bad that’s the wrong way to have it,” Bernie replies.

“Screw wrong, tell someone to change the recipe.”

“Aye aye,” a woman near the back pipes up. “Much better like this.”

Once the plates are clear of everything but a couple of crumbs, they all get back to work filming some extra shots of them baking.

Still, even with all the extra shots and other pottering about they still finish up with their day earlier than usual. It’s early evening by the time the coach pulls up to the hotel and they’re all famished.

“What are you in the mood for?” Raf asks when they get onto the subject of food.

“Anything but chocolate,” Dom replies wryly and they laugh. They end up deciding on sushi and Dom leads them to what he claims, according to his mobile at least, is the best joint around. When the get their food, Bernie does her best with the chopsticks, blushes a little as Serena closes her hand over hers, showing her how to hold them properly. She drops the chopsticks when Serena lets go, blushes harder and picks them up, holds them as Serena said. It is a little easier now.

Still, she’s far from graceful with them and she finds herself paying less attention to the food and more attention to Serena, to the way her graceful hands move using the chopsticks as though it’s second nature.

“How about a walk?” Serena asks, back at the hotel once dinner’s done. “I think there’s a liquor store on the way to that park, we could buy a couple bottles, have a drink out in nature.”

“You know I have heard that’s illegal,” Bernie banters, but she remembers the last time she and Serena spent an evening in a park, thinks that it sounds very nice indeed.

They sit on a bench under a large tree, drinking from the bottle they bought (Bernie was able to make the case for just one, tonight) and the nearest light is far enough away that Serena’s features are unclear. Still, Bernie knows what Serena looks like, can infer the looks on her face from the shadows, thinks of what an intimate knowledge that is: to know what someone will look like without truly being able to see them.

She’s awed once more by the realisation of just how close she and Serena have become. Knows that she wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Sorry?” she says then, as she realises that Serena had said something and was waiting for her input. “Sorry,” she says again. “I was—”

“A million miles away from the sound of it,” Serena replies kindly, holding no rancour for the fact that Bernie wasn’t listening to her. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” There’s a beat of silence before she adds, “I was just thinking how, um, glad I was that we’ve become friends.”

“Me too,” Serena replies, leaning in close and Bernie knows she’s smiling. She shivers then in the cool evening air and Bernie lifts one arm to wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her in close.

They sit like that for a very long time.

* * *

“Welcome to the quarter-final showstopper,” Sue says with grandiosity the next morning, before she and Mel announce the challenge. It is to be a chocolate centrepiece, an impressive construction of chocolate, bedecked in chocolate work and incorporating both a biscuit element and a sponge element. They are to be given five hours, and Serena, from her practice runs at home, knows that while that may seem like a lot it’s not.

She sets to work, and only pauses when the judges come up to ask her about her plans for the day.

“I will be making a grapevine,” Serena tells them.

“A grapevine?” Mary exclaims.

“Yes,” Serena smiles then, “I have been known to be quite fond of my shiraz so I figured play to my strengths and go with what I know.”

“And how will you be making this happen, in the form of chocolate?” Mary asks.

“Well the sponge will be the ground,” Serena explains, “the trunk is made from chocolate biscuits, the leaves and vines are chocolate, and then the grape bunches are shiraz truffles. For the sake of structural soundness the truffles rest on the sponge, but the effect still stands, I think.”

Mary and Paul ask a couple more questions: specifics on technique and the like, and then move on and leave her to her work. The chocolate biscuits are simple, so Serena starts there. She creams butter and caster sugar, then sifts in self-raising flour and cocoa powder. She’s brought all of her cutters from home, so she can replicate what she did there. The biscuits are cut out into rounds that will stack and then be iced to resemble a gnarly vine. While those bake, she tempers white chocolate to make the vines and leaves. For the leaves, she’s brought with her a bunch of washed and dried shiraz leaves that she paints with the white chocolate, and sets aside to set. Eventually she’ll be able to peel the chocolate off the leaves and it will look identical, down to the veins. The rest of the chocolate gets shaped into vines (ranging from thick and mostly straight, to little decorative curly cues).

She whips up a quick dark chocolate buttercream, that will be used for almost all the decoration, and a smaller batch of milk chocolate buttercream, for accents here and there. Her original recipe had wine in everything, biscuits and buttercream included, but Ellie had called it ‘a bit much’, so Serena has reined in her instincts slightly and now the truffles and the sponge are the only elements that still contain shiraz.

For the truffles, she starts by bringing a small pot of shiraz to the boil. Then she pours the hot wine into a bowl holding all of the chocolate. She leaves it for about five minutes, so the wine can melt the chocolate, then stirs it until the chocolate has melted fully and everything is combined, then adds in some melted butter. It takes about, oh, forty minutes for the chocolate to set to the point of being workable and it needs to be stirred every five minutes or so during that process. Serena’s careful to pause constantly to check on the truffle mix while she starts the mix for her sponge.

She has her cake in the oven and baking by the time the truffles are ready to be rolled. To form them, Serena takes one teaspoon of the chocolate mixture at a time, rolls them into a ball, then tosses them in cocoa powder. Sue comes by to help her for a little bit, takes a childlike pleasure in rolling the truffles and Serena watches her with a careful eye—she does not want half of her truffles to suddenly disappear courtesy of Sue’s indomitable sweet tooth. When they’re all made, Serena sets the truffles aside to set. At the end of the day, it comes down to timing. Again.

“Don’t let this  _temper_ your ambitions bakers,” Sue calls out while Serena’s working, “but we’re halfway through the challenge.”

It’s all time consuming work, and all Serena can do is work hard at it, while giving everything enough time so it can set and be firm. She makes the trunk of the vine from the biscuits while the sponge bakes and cools, decorates it with both colours of buttercream to get the classic wrapped texture. When the sponge is ready, she ices it as well, with little tufts that look like grass, then shoves the end of the biscuit trunk right into the middle of the sponge. She’s made the sponge tall enough to make a good stable base for the biscuits, and it stays steady as she continues the decorations. The truffles are all glued together with a chocolate royal icing (a recipe that took a couple of tries for Serena to get quite right). The bottom of the ‘grape bunches’ sit on the sponge for structural support, and Serena has to be careful in how she stacks them to make sure they’re structurally sound. Once the bunches are done, the last step is to attach all the white chocolate vines and leaves to the piece. Each side gets a thick ropy ‘vine’ attaching the bunches of truffle grapes to the biscuit trunk, and then she attaches on the leaves. Overall, the look is quite impressive, and Serena’s happy to note she finished with five minutes to spare. She wipes down the edges of her platter, sets it at the end of her bench, and waits for the end of the challenge to be called.

There’s the now routine break for the cameras to take the pre-judging beauty shots of the bakes, and they do interviews at the same time. Then they head back into the tent for the judging.

Jac is up first. She’s built a cornucopia out of beautifully tempered dark chocolate. Inside of the cornucopia is a marble chocolate sponge, as well as chocolate dipped mini digestives, little chocolate macarons, and two different kinds of chocolate truffles.

The cornucopia itself is praised, as are the truffles. The sponge, however, is found to be dry, and the macarons not quite up to standard, and though the digestive biscuits are very well done, Mary wonders if they might be a bit on the plain side for a showstopper.

Next is Dom. He’s made a beehive out of chocolate. It looks good, the chocolate is tempered nicely on his as well. As well it should be, Serena thinks, if they’ve made it this far in the competition. When the judges slice into Dom’s beehive it reveals a honey chocolate sponge floor, honey chocolate hexagonal cookies, and even a couple of little marzipan and chocolate bees. It’s quite darling, the whole thing, but Paul and Mary find fault with the sponge (close-textured) and the decorations as a whole (clumsy, not elaborate enough for a showstopper). As Dom makes his way back to his bench Serena wonders if Paul and Mary will be happy with anything today.

Bernie’s next, with her beautiful pirate’s chest centrepiece. It’s been built out of chocolate shortbread biscuits, each one indented with lines before baking to gain the appearance of a wood plank. The chest has a chocolate sponge at its centre, and the biscuit lid is cracked open, the chest spilling out ‘treasures’. Bernie has taken the time to make individual chocolate coins, which she then painted with gold leaf. As well, there are a couple of white chocolate truffle ‘pearl’ necklaces, a gold plate, and even a gold leaf covered chocolate goblet that Bernie admits she didn’t have a proper mould for, so made using a silicone wine glass and a little ingenuity. Overall the look of it is stunning, Serena can’t help but be proud. Paul and Mary love it, in fact they love all of it. The sponge is flavourful, moist, and well baked, the shortbread beautifully crumbly.

Serena shoots Bernie a surreptitious thumbs up as she heads back to her bench, and then it’s Serena’s turn. She walks her grape vine centrepiece up to the front of the room and then bounces nervously on her heels as she waits for the verdict.

“Wow,” Paul says right away. “I love that.”

“I wasn’t at all sure, when we spoke to you earlier,” Mary says, “how you were going to manage to get the grape bunches upright without them just toppling right over, but you’ve managed it.”

Paul cuts a piece of the sponge first, and the judges agree that it’s got a lovely flavour and bake.

“The wine adds a hint of flavour,” Paul says, “without being overwhelming.” Serena sighs in relief.

Next he breaks into the biscuit trunk and he and Mary approve of that as well.

“A lovely biscuit,” Mary says, “crumbly and firm and the icing goes smashingly well.”

Then they try the truffles and the chocolate decorations. Those are a hit as well, and Serena beams as she thanks them for their compliments.

“You’ve really cracked it,” Paul says finally. “The bake on everything is superb, and the effect of it all… very impressive.”

“I could easily see it sitting at the centre of a table at a ritzy wine tasting,” Mary says, “and I’m sure the guests would be just in awe of the whole things.”

Serena grins widely as she makes her way back to her bench, catches both Bernie’s wink and thumbs up, grins a little wider in return.

Last of all is Raf, and his centrepiece looks quite interesting indeed. He walks to the front of the tent with a large egg shaped chocolate ball sitting on a bed of biscuit nest on his platter. Mel comes behind him, carrying a small pitcher, which she places on the table beside the egg. When Paul and (probably more importantly) about four different cameras are ready, Raf picks up the pitcher and drizzles dark chocolate sauce all over the shiny white chocolate egg. The effect is wildly impressive. Almost immediately, the egg begins to crumble and it reveals inside a bird made out of sponge and decorated in fondant. The judges coo in astonishment, and Serena almost lets out a sound of delight herself. Now  _that_ is a centrepiece. The sponge and the nest go over well with the judges as well, and though Mary points out that they would’ve liked to see more examples of chocolate work, Serena can hardly think that matters in consideration of what they just saw.

They head outside for more interviews, then wait around and eat each other’s bakes while Paul and Mary judge. It takes even longer than it did the week before, and the bakers spend the time working with the camera crews to get all the extra takes and shots they need for the final cut. In the end it takes four hours for Paul and Mary to reach a decision, which Serena finds both frustrating and sort of comforting. She doesn’t like that they had to sit around with nothing to do for a good portion of that time, but it’s nice to know that the judges are taking the stakes at this point very much to heart, and doing their best to make the best decision possible.

They eventually do get called back into the tent for judging, and Serena sits where they tell her to on the line of little wooden stools. She feels fairly confident about how she’s done this weekend, a little more worried about Bernie than herself, but it’s always hard to know.

“I have the nice job this week,” Sue says, “I get to announce Star Baker. I get to announce that this week’s star baker is a person who bakes with booze about as often as Mary drinks it. A person who makes a smashing german torte, and the person responsible for the single most delicious grape vine I’ve ever put in my mouth. For the third time this competition, congratulations Serena.”

Everybody claps loudly and Serena beams. Star baker, again, it’s better than she had hoped for.

“There’s a reason we alternate this job,” Mel says, “and that’s cause it really sucks. And each week it gets harder and harder. This week Mary and Paul took hours, as you know, trying to decide who is to be going home. And the person who will not be joining us in the semi-finals next week is…” She pauses before finally saying, “Dom. We are so sorry to see you go.”

“C’mon you!” Sue says. “Into the Mel/Sue sandwich with you. We are really gonna miss you.”

They all say goodbye to Dom and give their felicitations to Serena, and then before too long she and Bernie are headed back to Holby in Bernie’s sporty little car.

“We should celebrate,” Bernie says when they’ve reached the hospital’s car park, before Serena can move to get out of the car.

“Hmm?” Serena asks.

“You, star baker, two weeks in a row. That’s, um, celebration worthy isn’t it?” Bernie looks less sure of herself now.

“You know what,” Serena says with a smile, “I suppose it is.”

“I did notice neither of us is scheduled until later on Tuesday. Tomorrow night? Um, I mean, only if you want to, of course,” Bernie starts backpedalling immediately, and Serena stops her by placing one hand over where Bernie’s still rests on the gear shift.

“Tomorrow night sounds perfect. We can get all dolled up and head out straight from work, how’s that?”

“Um, gr-great.”

“See you tomorrow Bernie,” Serena says softly, and then she gets out of the car, grabs her bag from the boot, and takes the couple steps to her old green Saab. Bernie’s right: this deserves a celebration.

They end up at a bar near Bernie’s house, a hip little place with a long wine list and a reputation for a killer martini. Serena leads them through with ease, confident that she looks incredible in the little black dress and heels she’s put on for the occasion. Bernie looks great too, in dark skinny jeans and black blouse. They sit together in a little booth, drink and talk and laugh. Drink so much that when Serena drags them to another bar to dance together Bernie doesn’t protest. They dance close under the dark and the bright lights and Serena feels decades younger.

They’re interrupted only once, by a man maybe ten years younger who tries to coax Serena away for a dance but Serena pulls Bernie possessively close, arches an eyebrow at the man, lets him think what he thinks and laughs with Bernie when he walks away.

They end up at Bernie’s place, late, and Serena’s more than happy to collapse onto the bed in the second room. The next morning she wakes with a groan, pads out to the kitchen and fiddles with the coffee machine for a bit before she gets it figured out, sets the maximum amount possible to brewing. She considers going back to bed for a bit, covering her head with a pillow perhaps and pretending the day hasn’t started yet, but she knows she’ll never get back to sleep.

She turns to the stove and the fridge instead, figures she might as well make breakfast for the two of them. She’s got a pan on the stove and the element on when Bernie stumbles out of her room. Serena’s never seen Bernie first thing like this and she can’t help but find her adorable: hair an insane mess on the top of her head, eyes sleepy.

“That one doesn’t work,” she says with a yawn, pointing at the hob.

“Oh,” Serena replies. That would explain why it wasn’t heating up. She moves the pan one spot over and Bernie shakes her head. “That one too?” Serena asks.

“Well,” Bernie hedges, “it works but it only does two temperatures: hot or off.”

“Ah.”

“I burned a good couple of things when I first moved in,” Bernie says with a sleepy grin.

“I’ll bet.”

Serena can’t imagine, suddenly, how in hell Bernie prepares for Bake Off in this kitchen. No machines, barely any pans or bowls—Serena had noted that when trying to find a frying pan—it’s amazing she’s made it this far.

She doesn’t say anything though, doesn’t want Bernie to feel like she’s judging her. She concentrates instead on making breakfast, on making sure they both get to work on time.


	13. Patisserie Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you all know, I'm gonna be swapping over to updating once a week (Mondays) from now own. School's ramping up intensity and I don't have as much time as I'd like to write and edit.  
> Also with Bernie's last ep coming up, take heart and remember that this is what fanfiction is for lol  
> I'd love to hear your opinions on the finalists!

It was probably invariable that at some point Bernie would have to pull rank over Serena in the trauma bay. That doesn’t mean Bernie had truly accepted this fact and when the time comes she does her best to avoid it. A man comes in with a GSW to the stomach and as talented and as good as Serena is she just doesn’t have the expertise with this kind of stuff that Bernie does. So Bernie has to overrule her, right then and there in front of everyone (and god would Bernie had loved to do it in private, but there just wasn’t the time). It’s awkward, totally horrible, and Bernie ends up taking the patient in for surgery herself when Serena gets called away to another emergent case.

The rub is, for Bernie, that she was right. She was right and she knows she was right because you don’t spend twenty-five years in the RAMC without learning a little bit about the best way to triage a gunshot wound. She runs the interaction over and over again in her mind while she works on the man. Anywhere else, with anyone else, Bernie wouldn't have thought twice about it. Wouldn’t have spared a second thought for the feelings or opinions of the other doctor: they’re wrong, Bernie’s right, and that’s it, or that’s how it’s always been. Here though, with Serena, all she can think about is how Serena feels. They’ve argued before about the best way to treat a patient—all surgeons do—but this is the first time Bernie hasn’t gone along with Serena’s decision. She knows Serena said that she wants Bernie to speak her mind about patient care but still. It’s different, it feels different to Bernie this time, and she frets about it all day long.

It’s nearing the end of the day when she sees Serena for longer than a quick second here or there. She gets the feeling that Serena’s avoiding her as much as Bernie’s avoiding her. Bernie’s charting in the office when Serena comes in, they don’t say anything, just exchange a quick nod before Serena sits down at her desk gets to work on her own paperwork. Neither speaks until Bernie’s standing up, grabbing coat and bag, about to leave.

“You’re coming for supper tomorrow night, right?” Serena says when Bernie’s halfway out the door.

“I don’t know,” it’s the first she’s heard of it. She spins around so she can look at Serena. “Am I?”

“Jason would love to see you,” Serena replies.

“Just Jason?” Bernie asks, wishes her voice didn’t have such a desperate lilt.

“I’m sure Elinor will be glad enough too,” Serena says with a small smile and Bernie can’t help but feel like she’s being deliberately obtuse.

“And Elinor’s mum?” Bernie has to press for the confirmation she needs, can’t manage without it being said, without some sort of closure. She needs to be sure that Serena’s okay, that they’re okay. There’s a pause then, just a moment where the words hang between them and they stand there looking at each other, both unsure.

“She would be very happy if you came,” Serena finally replies softly.

“Okay,” Bernie response is immediate.

“Okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Serena says, and Bernie thinks her smile looks relieved. “Have a good night Bernie.”

“You too.”

Bernie goes home that night and stays up extra late practicing her bakes so that the next day she can stay at Serena’s for as long as Serena wants her there.

The weekend comes around quickly and almost before she knows it Bernie is in her car with Serena on their way to Bath once more. They’re both excited, if slightly worried, and Bernie can’t help but grin as Serena sings along lustily to the music playing in the car. They meet up with Raf and Jac once they get to Bath, all head out for dinner together, and sit around discussing the competition, how they all ended up where they are, and what they’ll do once it’s over.

“I’m really just wondering what I’ll do with all the extra time,” Raf says. “Though I think Fletch is looking forward to it. He’s been happy I’ve made it through this far, of course, but he’s getting to his wits end being alone with all four kids every weekend.”

“I’m sure they're all very proud of their papa,” Bernie says then.

“I think they are, yeah. Mikey asked if I was going to keep baking as much once the show’s done, I guess he’s just worried the endless supply of cakes and biscuits is going to dry up.”

They laugh at that.

“I can’t stop thinking about what it will be like after our names are released,” Jac says quietly. “I for one am not looking forward to every moron in my vicinity suddenly thinking they have reason to talk to me.”

“Worried you’ll come off as approachable, Jac?” Serena asks with a grin and Bernie can’t contain her snort.

“Definitely,” Jac replies coolly. “Fear is a powerful motivator in the workplace.”

“Shouldn’t have been such a softy with everyone then,” Raf says laughing. He stops as soon as Jac raises one dangerous eyebrow and Bernie is once again jealous of Jac’s effortless ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe. Of course Jac breaks almost immediately and they all dissolve into laughter.

“It has been fun,” Bernie says, “a lot more than I expected, I think. Even if it were to end this weekend for me, I’d be happy.”

“Mmm,” Serena agrees, then raises her glass in a toast, “to making it this far.”

“Making it this far,” the rest of them chorus, clinking their drinks together.

The next morning Bernie gets up and heads out for her run. She runs further than ever before, sets a punishing pace until the only things her mind can settle on are the actions of setting one foot in front of the other and drawing enough air to keep moving. She stops at the usual bakery, chats politely with the girl at the counter, heads back to the hotel drenched in sweat and exhausted. It’s going to be a brutally hot day.

When she gets on the coach and flops down beside Serena, Serena turns to her with a wry grin.

“I’m assuming this was meant for you,” she says, holding out her coffee sleeve. Bernie takes it, confused, flips it over to see a phone number written on the rough a cardboard surface, a heart and a name (Emma) below it.

“Romance in the air?” Serena teases.

“I—uh…” Bernie thinks of the young girl she sees every morning at the cafe, “god, she can’t be much older than Charlotte!” She’s taken aback. This can’t be—there’s no way.

“Well, good to know you can still turn a head.” Serena is far too amused by this whole situation and Bernie just rolls her eyes at her obvious joy.

“You do realise this means no coffee tomorrow right?” she says.

“What?” Serena protests.

“I can’t go back!” Bernie says. Thinks that, at least, is obvious.

“Why not?” Serena seems completely confused. “She took a chance, you weren’t interested. Happens every day.”

“It’s, no, it’s awkward.” Bernie protests. She wonders then if Serena actually feels regular human shame. Perhaps she’s just so confident that the mere concept of awkwardness is meaningless to her.

“Mmm, I guess I’ll make do without then,” Serena says, shrugging. Bernie knows without a doubt that she’ll be finding a different cafe the next morning. Serena may be content to do without her coffee but Bernie isn’t willing to do without that first morning glimpse of Serena, knows already she wouldn’t feel centred without it. She’s a creature of habit, at the end of the day.

“Welcome semi-finalists!” Mel says brightly. It’s mid-morning and they’re standing in the tent ready to begin. “To what will be for three of you your second last signature challenge.” The ominous inference, the fact that for one of them it will be their last signature, hangs in the air.

“Today,” Sue says, “we are looking for you to make 24 macarons. We would like you to make two different flavours, so that is twelve of each.”

“Your macarons should be delicate and delicious, Paul and Mary are looking for crispy tops, small unbroken feet, and chewy interiors. They must, of course, be uniform in size and bake, and have the correct ratio of biscuit to filling.”

“And just think!” Sue exclaims, “if they’re really good they might just get elected president of France.” she pauses while everyone groans at the pun, then starts on those familiar words, “on your marks.”

“Get set,” Mel picks up the thread.

“Bake!” It's the most over the top crow Sue has ever given on the show and at the sound of it they all rush to get started.

Bernie starts by separating eggs to get her egg whites. She explains to a nearby camera that when she makes these at home she prefers her whites to be a few days old as they whip up better, but that’s a liberty not afforded in the tent.

She beats the egg whites to stiff peaks—demonstrates for the camera that she can hold the bowl upside down over her head without a fear of anything sliding out—and adds a bit of caster sugar as she goes. She grinds her almonds in a food processor at the same time, pulsing them down to a fine powder which she’ll then sift to ensure there are no nasty lumps that will ruin the macarons’ consistencies.

“So Bernie,” Paul says as the judges makes their way around to her. “Made it to the semi-finals.”

“Somehow,” she replies with a little grin.

“What kinds of macarons will you be making for us today?”

“Cappuccino macarons, which are espresso flavoured with milk frosting, and blackberry macarons with a balsamic buttercream.”

“I like the sound of those flavour combinations,” Mary says. “Are you going by the French or the Italian method for baking them?

“French. Amongst other things anything that calls for a longer slower bake isn’t quite conducive to the structure of Bake Off.”

“Fair enough,” Paul agrees. “What temperature will you be baking them at?”

“Starting at 160 but I bump it up a little more when I open the door of the oven partway through.”

“You open the door and leave it open?” Paul asks in that way of his that just breeds anxiety.

“I do, yes, just propped of course, not all the way. But I’ve read that non-commercial ovens have too much of a moisture build up when they’re baking something like macarons, so you prop open the door after the feet have developed to counteract that…” she trails off at the look on Paul’s face, immediately beginning to question herself.

“Fascinating,” is all he says.

“Oh come now,” Mary chides him. “It certainly sounds like you know what you’re talking about Bernie, we’ll leave you to it.”

Despite the meddling influence of one Paul Hollywood, Bernie has to just stick with her plan. She’s practiced it enough by this point, and if her shoddy ‘who even knows what setting it’s on’ oven at her Holby apartment can produce consistent results this way then every home oven should.

She divides her egg whites equally between two bowls, adds the flavouring and the scant amount of food colouring she’s using. She doesn’t really like the garishly bright macarons some shops have started selling in recent days. To her mind, macarons should be shades of delicate pastels and so Bernie colours her mixes accordingly.

Once that’s done, she carefully folds in her sifted ground almonds and sifted powdered sugar into each batch. It’s very delicate work—the worst thing you can do to a macaron is to be heavy handed at this stage—but if the mix is in any way not fully combined it will be glaringly obvious in the final result.

She lets it sit for ten minutes, then pipes the mixes onto two pieces of parchment on which she’s drawn out in pencil guides for how large she should pipe them. The ideal macaron is about three to four centimetres in diameter, so Bernie has drawn her templates slightly smaller to compensate for the way the macarons will settle and then grow in the oven. Next, she has to let the macarons rest. There are a lot of differing perspectives on just how long macarons have to rest to develop their skin before they’re baked. Recipes range anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, Bernie’s been practicing with a forty-five minute resting stage and it seems to do the trick. While she waits, she gets started on the fillings.

For the cappuccino macarons, Bernie has decided to go rather old school. The frosting she’s using is a boiled milk frosting, also known as ermine or cloudburst frosting. It’s a traditional American recipe, and was at one point the go-to frosting for red velvet and devil’s food cakes. It’s made by cooking flour and milk together until they thicken.

“Instead of relying on the proteins in the egg whites to make a suspension between the sugar and the butter,” she explains, “boiled milk frosting uses the glutenin in the flour as a structure for the butter and the sugar.”

She starts by whisking together milk and flour in a small saucepan, and then brings them to a boil. The mixture has to be stirred constantly so it doesn’t catch—a perfect thing to occupy her time while she waits for the macarons to rest. Once it’s boiled for one minute, she pulls it off the heat and transfers it to another bowl to stop the cooking process. She puts a layer of clingfilm directly on the surface to stop a skin from forming, and places the bowl in the fridge so the mixture can cool and thicken.

“How’s it going Bernie?” Mel asks, coming by her bench.

“Okay, I think,” Bernie says with a little shrug.

“Have you practiced this bake a lot at home?”

“Quite a bit, yeah. I mean,” Bernie pauses for a moment to do the math in her head, “I’ve made five batches of them over the past week. So, um, a hundred and twenty macarons?”

“Good lord.”

“Yeah. Thankfully my kids like macarons,” she says with a laugh.

When Mel’s moved past, she starts on the other filling, the balsamic vinegar buttercream. It’s an interesting flavour proposition, that Bernie knows. But with the right amount of balsamic vinegar added to the frosting, the result is a slightly tangy buttercream that cuts through the sweetness of the macaron beautifully. Without tasting like salad dressing.

She starts by combining egg whites, sugar, and cream of tartar in a bowl, and placing it over a pot of gently simmering water. She stirs it constantly, until the mixture reaches a steady temp of about 85 degrees, then pours the contents of the bowl into the bowl of the stand mixer, fitted with the whisk attachment, and whisks it at a high speed until it’s glossy, stiff, and cool to the touch. Next, with the stand mixer still running, she adds the butter little bits at a time until all incorporated. Then she pours in the little bit of balsamic vinegar and some food colouring.

The food colouring is for aesthetics alone, but Bernie finds the brown colour reached from just the vinegar to be sickly. It looks much more appetizing with a bit more colour to it.

While the buttercream is in the process of being made, it comes time for Bernie to put the first batch of macarons in the oven. The crucial step, the one she almost misses, is to tap the baking sheets holding the macarons sharply against the counter before putting them in the oven. This prevents air bubbles, and not doing it would’ve been a major gaffe. She blows out a huff of breath, frustrated with her own stupidity.

She bakes them at 160 for about eight minutes, watching them like a hawk the whole time. When she’s happy with how they look, and how the feet have developed, she props open the door and increases the heat by a bit to compensate. In the end, that first batch takes about twelve minutes, and when she pulls them from the oven Bernie’s happy with how they look. Glossy tops and clean feet are all she can hope for at this stage.

She sets those shells to cool, gets the remaining macarons in the oven, making sure to rap the pans against the counter before they go in.

When the milk mixture has thickened enough, Bernie pulls it out of the fridge, beats butter and sugar in a separate bowl until light and fluffy, then adds that to the milk mixture. She adds just a pinch of salt, then tastes it. Perfect. It has just the faintest taste of heated milk—enough to complement the espresso macarons without overwhelming them.

She gets the second batch of macarons out of the oven and cooling, is happy with how they look as well. She stands there and wafts a cookie sheet over them to cool them quicker, then she gets down to filling them. She starts with the espresso macarons, pipes a little filling onto one, then sandwiches it with another, pressing just to the point where the filling reaches the edges of the biscuit. She repeats the process with all twenty-four halves, then moves onto the blackberry ones. Paul comes and stands near her for a few minutes while she works, looms ominously.

“I had a sergeant major who used to loom up on people like that once,” she says without looking at him. “‘The Ghost’, we used to call him.”

Paul gives a sort of grunt in reply.

“What can I do for you Paul?” she’s still intent on her work, but she can feel him shift behind her. He sounds like he’s going to speak, but he doesn’t say anything, just moves on. No doubt to loom ominously over someone else.

Bernie finishes up with her macarons just as Mel and Sue announce that the challenge is over. There’s a quick break for interviews (and they were warned to expect more interviews than ever this week) and then it’s time to face the music.

Bernie’s up first for judging, and Mary and Paul start with her cappuccino macarons.

“Nice shine to them, wouldn’t you say Mary?” Paul says as he picks one up and examines it from all sides.

“Oh yes, they do look a treat,” Mary agrees. They each take a bite and chew thoroughly before giving their opinion. They like both of them, especially the cappuccino ones and Mary enthuses over how clever Bernie was to use a boiled milk frosting. The blackberry and balsamic macarons are something neither judge expected to like, they admit, but both do and Bernie's happy with the results there.

Jac’s mint macarons with white chocolate ganache and blackcurrant macarons with honey buttercream aren't quite as well received. The bake is good on all of them, and the blackcurrant and honey ones are a win for flavour, but the mint white chocolate macarons are too sweet and some of them are unevenly sized.

Raf's raspberry macarons with chocolate ganache and lemon macarons with lime buttercream do well with Paul and Mary. The flavours are sharp and delicately balanced, the bakes even, and the only major criticism is on the ratio of filling to biscuit.

Serena’s made mango macarons with passionfruit buttercream and grapefruit macarons with gin buttercream. They look stunning, they're well baked, and mostly uniform. However for the first time Bernie can remember Serena missed with her flavours, and Paul chokes after trying the grapefruit ones, complaining of an excess of alcohol in the buttercream.

It’s a mixed bag, over all, and as they eat lunch Bernie wonders about the technical of them. Worries, rather. She’s sure it’ll be something insanely tough and she just hopes she’ll know something of use.

“Worrying about the technical?” Serena asks, nudging her with her shoulder.

“Aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Serena shrugs, “I can’t do anything about it until I’m in it, can I? And neither can you.” She pulls the empty mug out of Bernie’s hands, places it on the table behind her. “Come on Ms. Wolfe, let's go for a walk.”

Bernie stares for a few seconds, wondering how Serena can be so perfectly calm about this whole thing, and then her brain catches up and she gets to her feet. She and Serena walk down the gorgeous rolling land of Prior Park. They make their way down to the Palladian bridge again, lean against each other as they look down at the water.

Bernie jumps a little when Serena first runs her fingers over the back of her hand. She wasn’t expecting that. But soon she turns her hand over, lets Serena place her hand over it, intertwining their fingers. They walk back to the tent holding hands until they reach the trailers and Bernie feels at peace.

* * *

“Paul and Mary are looking for beautifully crisp exteriors with soft, custard-like centres,” Sue says when announcing the technical challenge: ten canelés.

“In effect,” Mel jumps in, “perfection.”

“Exactly,” Sue agrees. “As usual, we’re not asking for much. You have two hours bakers. On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

Serena whips off the gingham cloth, looks down at the recipe and finds it more detailed than usual. At first she’s grateful, then she realizes: how bloody impossible must his challenge be if Paul and Mary thought they needed more instructions than usual?” They're all fucked.

Serena's seen canelés before, the delicate little cakes have risen from obscurity over the past couple of years and many a French pâtisserie sells them now. She knows how they should look, probably, with their little fluted sides and dark caramelised exteriors. The first step on the recipe is to heat the oven and warm the copper moulds, the second is to heat the milk, butter, and vanilla bean, let cool, and then add to a mixture of the dry ingredients and the eggs. The batter then needs to rest, though the recipe is unclear about whether that should be in the cold fridge or at room temperature. Serena gets started, keeps the oven temp low at first to warm the moulds, and stirs the saucepan of ingredients. She heats up butter and beeswax in another saucepan until it's all melted and stirs so that everything's combined. The directions call for lining the moulds with ‘just enough’ of the beeswax mixture. Serena has, of course, absolutely no idea what just enough beeswax is. She takes the saucepan of milk mixture off the hob and sets it aside to rest. Then she pulls the moulds out of the oven and tries to line the first one with the beeswax. She pours a bit in, swirls it around, and then waits for it to harden a bit before flipping it upside down onto a cooling rack. It, well, it works. So she goes on to the next one.

By the fourth mild Serena’s sure she has no idea just how much beeswax has gone into each. She’s doing her best to coat each one with the same amount but she thinks she probably isn’t doing a very good job. Then again, she gets them all coated and resting and she decides that that must be enough. With the moulds in the freezer to harden and cool, she sifts the dry ingredients into the milk mixture and decides to set it in the fridge to rest.

“How’s it going Serena?” Sue asks as she swings by her bench.

“The next time Paul needs an operation I’m going to put him in a theatre with an F1 and a sparse list of instructions and see how he feels about technical challenges then,” Serena says darkly.

“Message received,” Sue laughs before flitting off to check on the others.

Next Serena’s left with the joy of trying to decide what the hell temperature her oven should be at. It just says to preheat the oven at high heat, put them in the oven and bake them at that temperature for an unspecified amount of time and then reduce the temperature and ‘bake until done’. Helpful as always. She goes with 240, thinks she’ll put it down to about 180 after fifteen or so minutes. For now, she waits for the batter to rest.

Serena pulls the moulds out of the freezer after about forty minutes, and starts filling them with the batter.

“If you  _can_ ,” Sue shouts out from the centre of the room, “finish in one hour. Paul and Mary will be  _ela_ ted.” She pauses to snigger at her own joke. “You’re halfway through bakers. That’s halfway through.”

Serena swears as she tries to get her pan of moulds into the oven without spilling them. She didn’t fill the moulds quite full but it’s still awkward trying to put a cookie sheet with ten little moulds on it into the oven and Serena could easily see one or more toppling over. Thank heavens the god of ovens or baking or some such is watching over her and she does manage to get the moulds into the oven without complete disaster. She sets her timer for twelve minutes, she decides, after which she’ll take a look and then likely lower the temp of her oven.

By the time twelve minutes hits Serena already knows her canelés have spelled disaster. They’ve all puffed up in their tins like little soufflés and the canelés she’s seen around have certainly never had large airy bottoms like that. She lowers the temperature and stares through the glass, hoping desperately that the cakes settle back down.

They do, a bit, certainly not enough though, and when Serena pulls her cakes from the oven forty five minutes later, she’s barely able to get them to stand up on the little tray they’ve been given. The bottoms are uneven and she has to lean a couple of the canelés against each other to keep them upright. The bake’s fairly uneven as well and though she’s happy with that fact that they’re all browned (and thus are likely baked through) she knows for certain that this is far from her strongest showing yet. Her only hope, as awful as it sounds, is that someone else fared worse than she. Considering the skill level between Raf, Jac, and Bernie though, she knows that’s not very likely. As she brings her bakes up to the front of the room with the others, she looks at their trays and tries to assess how well they’ve done. They all look so different (and no one’s look phenomenal) so it’s very hard to say. They get brought outside for another quick interview and then it’s back onto the line of hard wooden chairs in the tent for their judging.

When Paul and Mary come back in the tent, Paul gives a little laugh when he sees the cakes on offer.

“Looks like we've had some problems this week, eh Mary?”

“I'd say so, yes,” Mary agrees.

“Shall we start over here?” Paul asks and he and Mary take a critical look at Serena’s puffed up, uneven canelés.

“These ones were overmixed,” Paul says immediately. “Whoever made them whisked too much air into the batter which is why they rose up like this. A canelé is not a soufflé.” Serena thinks that that’s rather obvious.

“They're just baked,” Mary says. “Though the crust isn't near the colour I'd like to see.”

“Not at all, no,” Paul agrees. “The beeswax on the tins was uneven, too thick on some, much too thick on others,” Paul says. “You’re looking for a very thin coating to encourage the crust’s crunch and get that subtle shine. When it's too thick the beeswax sort of glues to the roof of your mouth when you’re eating them which isn’t very pleasant.”

“Still, a nice flavour,” Mary says.

“Not bad,” Paul hedges.

“These all have white arses,” Mary says about Bernie’s canelés and they all titter nervously at the phrase.

“That is actually the technical term,” Paul assures them. “And yes they do. It happens to the best of bakers, it’s not ideal of course but it’s from a puddling of oil in some of the crevices of the mould. It’s odd to see it on everyone in the batch though—might be due to uneven application of the beeswax.”

“Lovely shine on them though, otherwise,” Mary says.

“Mmmm. Good flavour and overall a nice bake too,” Paul agrees, “A bit uneven, but the inside is soft, almost like a custard, which is what you want.

Jac’s are also good, probably the best there, with a darker sheen than the rest of them accomplished. Raf's are unfortunately burned.

“The beeswax is too thin,” Paul explains after trying one. “And completely gone in spots, which is why it looks like they stuck to the tins a bit when you were pulling them out. Also the milk mixture was too hot when it was added to the batter, so you’ve got bits of overcooked egg mixed in with everything else.”

In the end, it’s Raf who gets fourth in the technical. Serena third, Bernie second, and Jac first. Paul is sure to stress that while Jac’s are the best here, they are far from the standard expected, and with a roll of their eyes at his words all four contestants step outside for yet more interviews.

They all cheerfully lambast Paul at dinner that night. His technical challenges are getting absolutely ridiculous and the four of them commiserate over their relatively poor results. Serena’s truly overjoyed to be part of this quartet. They’ve gotten close over the past nine weeks and she feels an affinity for Raf and Jac she didn’t expect at first. She hopes dearly that they all stay in contact when this is done.

The conversation moves on, to talk of work and life and all things outside of the Bake Off tent. She laughs until tears well in her eyes as Raf regales them with the tale of Fletch and the kids trying to cook him breakfast for a late Father’s Day celebration and the complete disaster that followed.

“I don’t know how Fletch ever managed on his own,” he admits with a fond smile. “It must’ve been takeaway every night before I showed up.”

Jac shares stories of her week as well, most notably a crucially important merger she was able to finagle while screwing over a man who had sexually harassed her early in her career—and terminated her when she made a complaint.

“A life-long take it the grave grudge, eh?” Serena says once Jac’s done. “You’re my kind of woman, Jac Naylor.”

All four of them stay out quite late, discussing everything but their nerves over the next day’s challenge. Serena enjoys best of all the looks she and Bernie share over the rims of their wine glasses when someone says something that reminds them of an inside joke.

Back at the hotel, Serena falls asleep the second her head hits her pillow. She dreams of collapsing cakes, disapproving Hollywood glares and, most strangely of all, golden curls and soft brown eyes.

* * *

Showstopper day dawns with another long run, though this one for a slightly different reason. Bernie mentally mapped out her route the night before so that it would take her past as many cafes as possible. There is no way she can go back to her usual place now that the whole thing with the phone number happened. Bernie manages to be awkward enough on her own without the added trials of things like that. She stops by a couple of places before she finds one with pastries that look up to snuff. She orders the coffees and the pastries and hurries back to the hotel, very aware of the fact that her numerous stops have made her later than usual.

She delivers Serena her latte and pain au chocolat, whispers a quiet ‘good luck today’ before turning around so fast the edges of her hair hit her cheek. She has to shower quickly this morning, barely has time to gulp down her own coffee and pastry before she’s rushing downstairs to catch the coach. Not necessarily the smoothest start to showstopper day. Still, though, she thinks it was worth it.

She and the other contestants are restless as they go through the steps of preparing for a day of filming. There’s an undeniable tension underlying everything today, all four of them know how high the stakes are at this point. They all feel as though winning might be in their grasp. The interviews held before anything else, Bernie’s sure, reinforce that fact. She does her best to be polite but she’s sure that naked ambition has shined through. And not just on her.

“Welcome all of you,” Mel begins once they’ve got their aprons on and they’re ready to go. “As you all know today is the semi-final showstopper, so it’s safe to say that Paul and Mary’s standards are higher than ever before.”

“Today, Paul and Mary would love for you all to make forty-eight mille-feuille. They must have at least three layers of pastry, two layers of fillings, and we need two flavours of mille-feuille from each of you.” Sue pauses to grin at them. “Now this is the semi-finals, so we’re not just looking for any haphazard piles of pastry and creme pat, oh no, they must be beautiful, impressive, and they should look as enticing as Paul on a night out.” She makes a little growl noise then, brings one hand up to form a claw.

Mary laughs at that, as do the bakers. Paul just looks exasperated.

“Bakers you have what I’m sure is a very generous five hours,” Mel tells them.

“On your marks,” Sue begins.

“Get set,” that’s Mel.

“Bake!” both of them cry out together.

Bernie takes one deep calming breath, throws a glance over her shoulder at Serena at the workstation behind her, gets a wry smile for her efforts. And then she sets to work.

They’ve made full puff pastry from scratch so many times now in this competition that Bernie feels it’s almost second nature now. Not that she’s feeling complacent today, oh no. Most definitely not. The first batch of pastry she works on is a chocolate puff, made just like regular puff pastry save for the addition of cocoa powder to the butter. She uses the paddle attachment on the stand mixer to beat the cocoa powder into the butter, shapes it into a block once it’s done. She makes the lean dough, rolls it out and wraps it around the butter. She does her two first turns, using book folds, and gets the dough in the freezer to rest. She’s grateful that while it’s hot today, it’s not ‘butter melting out of the pastry before she’s done her turns’ hot. Small mercies and all that.

“Hullo Bernie,” Paul says as he, Mary, and Mel come up to our bench.

“Hi,” she greets them in return.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“A little,” Bernie admits.

“C’mon let’s see those hands,” Mel prompts, and Bernie holds her hands out flat, palms to the ground. Even with all the stress she feels they don’t shake in the slightest—nor should they, a surgeon with shaky hands is akin to an executioner.

“You and Serena both, steady as a rock,” Mel says.

“Comes with the job,” Bernie says with a little shrug.

“Why don’t you tell us what you’ll be baking today,” Paul says.

“Right. Today I am making chocolate and blackberry mille-feuille, and vanilla, earl grey, and lavender mille-feuille.”

“A bit of a theme there,” Mary notes, “blackberries and hot drinks.”

“Completely unintentional I swear!” Bernie says. “These just happened to be the flavours I liked. Actually the earl grey ones were the first mille-feuille I ever tried to bake.”

“So you’ve had lots of time to practice with them, jolly good!” Mary says.

“We’ll be expecting perfection then,” Paul says.

“Of course,” Bernie assures them. Hopes desperately that she can hold up to that standard.

She finishes up with the second batch of pastry, gets it chilling in the freezer. She has to be careful with the timing today, leaving the dough in the freezer between turns. If the butter stays in the freezer for too long it will solidify too much, clump when rolling out, and then the turns won’t accomplish their goal. She keeps an eye on the clock, will be pulling out the dough and making turns every fifteen minutes.

With that in mind, she gets started on her fillings. For the vanilla, earl grey, and lavender mille-feuille, she begins by putting heavy cream in a small saucepan and heating it over medium heat until it reaches a gentle simmer. At that point, she pulls it off the heat, adds in some dried lavender buds, and sets it aside to steep. The lavender crème chantilly will fill one layer of her mille-feuille, an earl grey and vanilla crème pâtissière will fill the other layer.

For the crème pât, she places milk, vanilla pods, and two earl grey tea bags in a pot, places it on the hob over medium high heat, and brings it to a boil. While it’s heating, she whisks together egg yolks and sugar, then cornflour. Once the milk mixture has boiled, she pours about half of it into the egg mixture, stirs it quickly and constantly to keep the yolks from cooking on contact with the hot milk. Then she pours the whole lot into the pot with the rest of the milk, stirs it over a low heat until it’s thickened. She pours it through a sieve to catch the vanilla pods, snags out the tea bags at the same time, places cling film over the top, pressed down onto the crème pât, and places it in the fridge to chill. She does more turns of the pastry, makes a mark on a scrap of paper. She’s done two turns after her initial one now, one more turn and a resting period and the pastry will be ready to bake.

She pours the cream and lavender through a sieve into a bowl, gets rid of the lavender, and places that bowl in the fridge to cool as well. Then she runs through a mental tally of what else she needs to do: the chocolate mousse can’t be made until right before she assembles those mille-feuilles, same with the icing for the top of the lavender mille-feuille. Bernie realises suddenly that she actually has a second to catch her breath.

She accepts a bottle of water from one of the production assistants, looks around the tent as she takes a long draught. Everyone else is hurrying about working on their bakes, and Bernie only has a few minutes to watch them before she, too, needs to get a move on and do the final turns of her pastry. Once both batches are turned, rested, and ready to go Bernie sets about rolling and baking them.

There’s a lot of pastry dough. There has to be for the number of mille-feuilles they’re making. By the time she has it all rolled out, Bernie will have six sheet pans of pastry for each type. Twelve batches of pastry she needs to get in and out of the oven in the time allotted. Each sheet of pastry will then be cut into twelve, making for forty-eight mille-feuilles with three layers of puff pastry each. As she can’t bake them all at once, Bernie rolls out the all the dough to make twelve sheets of the correct size, then layers all but three with parchment paper and keeps them in the fridge until they’re ready to go into the oven.

She gets the first three in the oven, docks them all over with a fork and places a piece of parchment paper and a second baking tray on top of each of them—to keep them from puffing up too much in the oven. It will take her two hours to bake all twelve of her sheets, if things go according to plan that is.

It’s not too bad, while the pastry is baking. Well, at least, she’s not all too busy. She is, however, wracked with anxiety the whole time. She can’t even see how the pastry looks in the oven, because of the trays weighing down the sheets obscuring her view. So she sits on the floor and waits, trusts her timers and checks each batch at twenty minutes, before turning them around and baking for a further ten minutes. While the pastry bakes, Mel calls out that they’re halfway through the challenge.

Bernie cuts her pastry almost as soon as she pulls it out of the oven, the warm dough more malleable and less prone to breaking than it will be once cooled. For the lavender mille-feuilles, she uses a large rocking pizza cutter to get clean, straight lines. For the chocolate mille-feuilles, she cuts the pastry into little rounds. The latter method leaves her with a heap of scraps of chocolate puff pastry, but when she calls over Mel and Sue and explains her predicament, those scraps are soon taken care of.

After the pieces are cut out, she sets them on cooling racks to get them down to a temperature where she’ll be able to assemble them without the filling leaking out everywhere. When they are almost cool enough, she gets started on the chocolate mousse. Bernie’s using Hervé This’ method for the mousse.

“Hervé This,” she explains to the camera as she works, “is a French physical chemist who specialises in molecular gastronomy.” Bernie sets a pot of water to boiling and chops up her dark chocolate into little pieces. “He discovered, that you can make an incredible chocolate mousse from just water and chocolate. He calls it Chocolate Chantilly, as it ends up with much the same consistency as whipped cream.” She sets out a bowl and fills it with ice, and gets out one other bowl that she’ll be working with. Once the water boils, she pours it into the empty bowl, then adds all of her chocolate. Then she starts whisking vigorously. “So the hot water melts the chocolate, and then once it’s all melted, you set the bowl over the ice. This way it cools while you whisk it. You’re usually told not to add water to chocolate, because the water makes the sugar and cocoa stick together, which makes the mixture grainy. But by whisking, vigorously,” she huffs out a breath at that, her arm’s starting to get tired, “you make the water molecules smaller, which get coated with emulsifiers from the chocolate, and stabilise the mixture.” She stops when the mousse gets to the consistency of whipped cream and her arm feels like it might fall off, pulls her whisk out to showcase the consistency. “It is possible to over-whisk it, and then it goes grainy which is why I prefer to do it by hand. Does work up a bit of a sweat though.”

She puts the mousse into a pastry bag, and starts assembling her chocolate mille-feuilles. She played around a bit, in the beginning, going between piping and just laying a dollop of the mousse down, but piping has been neater by far. She pipes down a bit of the mousse on a round of pastry, smooths it out with a palette knife, places down four blackberries, then another round of pastry, more chocolate, four more blackberries, a top bit of pastry, and then it’s on to the next one.

She timed herself at home while doing this, it should take no longer than a minute to assemble each one, and her mean time was closer to forty-five seconds once she got into the rhythm of it. With her chocolate mille-feuilles all assembled, she dusts them with cocoa powder and gets them onto the large wooden slab she’s serving them on and moves onto the other ones. She starts by pulling her lavender-infused cream out of the fridge, quickly whips it up with a little bit of confectioner’s sugar. Then she fills two piping bags, one with the crème pâtissière, one with the crème Chantilly. For the vanilla earl grey and lavender mille-feuilles, she places down a rectangle of pastry, then pipes dollops of the lavender crème Chantilly, then places another piece of pastry on top, pipes out dollops of the vanilla earl grey crème pât, then the last piece of pastry goes on top. Once they’re all assembled, Bernie uses her last frantic fifteen minutes to mix together confectioner’s sugar and water in two batches, one coloured dark purple. She ices the tops of the lavender mille-feuilles in the white icing, adds lines of the purple icing and feathers them, then garnishes the tops of each one with a little sprig of lavender. She has just placed down the last sprig when Sue calls out the end of the showstopper.

They get a break, then, to go outside and do interviews. There’s just enough time to run to the loo, and then it’s right on to the judging.

Bernie is so concentrated on her anxiety over the judging that she only realises she wasn’t paying attention to everyone else getting judged until it’s over. She managed to completely zone out, and so as the last contestant up to be judged she does so with no knowledge of how everyone else fared.

Thankfully, the judges seem to love her work. Her pastry is beautifully flaky, her flavours good, and her bake excellent. They like the look of them, go as far as to call them ‘professional’ and Bernie—to whom presentation has never come easily—can’t quite believe her ears. She returns to her bench quite chuffed indeed, and can only hope that Serena did as well.

There’s more interviews after judging, and then there’s the waiting. Nobody else discusses how they did. Bernie doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, but she thinks ‘sorry I was too self-absorbed to pay attention how did you all do?’ isn’t really the right way to go. She’ll just have to wait for the results, she figures. She sits in silence with Serena, Jac, and Raf and waits impatiently for one of the production assistants to come and tell them that Mary and Paul have made their decision.

She gets a chance to try the other bakes. Jac made praline and almond cream mille-feuilles, and honey mascarpone and raspberry mille-feuilles. Raf’s are a matcha lemon cream and lime cream with blueberries. And Serena’s made dark chocolate and coffee cream mille-feuilles, and pistachio and rose cream with strawberries. They all taste good to Bernie. She doesn’t want to pull them apart mentally, to try to see what the judges may or may not have picked on, so she concentrates on not thinking about that at all.

It’s a good few hours before they hear, and Bernie feels like she’s going stir-crazy. Still, when the time actually comes to cross the threshold into the tent and hear the verdict, she finds she wants nothing more than to run in the opposite direction. She gets seated at one end of the small row of stools, then it’s Jac, then Raf, and then Serena at the other end.

“Alright,” Mel says. “I have the nice job this week. I get to announce Star Baker. This week, it is someone who bakes a hot drink better than I’d ever have judged possible, does wonder with blackberries, and makes a canelé that Paul Hollywood himself judged as ‘barely passable’. Bernie! Congratulations!”

Everybody applauds, and Bernie feels absolutely elated. Her? Star Baker in the semi-final? She can’t really believe it.

“And I have the worse job this week,” Sue says. “It gets harder and harder each time, but this week is the toughest. You’re all phenomenal bakers, and we’re sending someone home who has shown they have as much right to be there in the finals as any of you. The person who won’t be joining us next week is…” Sue trails off, takes a deep breath. “Serena.”

Bernie barely stifles the shout of ‘no’ that threatens to escape her lips. She clamps a hand over her mouth and wills herself to be still. She wants to run up to the judges, tell them to reconsider, tell them that it should be her. It should be Bernie leaving and Serena getting Star Baker and this isn’t  _right_. But instead she just sits there woodenly. Everyone’s standing up and Mel and Sue are hugging Serena and she can sort of hear Mary and Paul congratulating her on getting Star Baker. She stands awkwardly, hopes she smiles and thanks them at the appropriate time because she’s not listening to them, barely even looking at them. All of her focus is on Serena. And then everyone shuffles around and Bernie’s pushed towards her and she ends up standing in front of Serena who looks so lovely and is being such a good sport even though this is the worst decision ever made on any television show ever.

“Serena I—” Bernie stops. Tries again. “It’s not right, you shouldn’t…”

“No Bernie. Hey. I had a bad week, this was the right call. Oh c’mere you,” she says as she pulls Bernie into a long, tight hug. Serena pulls back a little, so she can look Bernie in the eye but they’re both still comfortably in each other’s arms. “It’s okay,” she says warmly, “you just, you win this thing for me, okay?”

“Okay,” Bernie agrees. She would have agreed to anything in that instant. For Serena.

She doesn’t see Serena much after that, somehow they’re both going in other directions for the rest of the day. Each being pulled to do interviews and get extra shots. Bernie doesn’t sit beside her on the coach, feels gauche and ungainly. Doesn’t know how Serena feels about her in this moment. She’s in her room packing up her bags when her phone buzzes. She checks and it’s a text from Serena.

‘I think I’ll take the train home tonight. Enjoy the drive.’

Bernie doesn’t really know what to say. Just types ‘Ok’ and leaves it at that. She wants to say something familiar like ‘see you at work’ or just anything else, really. But she doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to make Serena uncomfortable.

Bernie drives back to Holby in an unrepentant drizzle and blames her encroaching headache on the headlights on the road.  _5 Days in May_ comes on shuffle and Bernie immediately turns the radio off with an angry jab of her thumb, her mind filled with the image of Serena cheerily singing along to the song on their trip down. She gets home completely drained. She should be brimming with joy and excitement. Star Baker in the semi-finals, a place in the finals of the competition. She knows she should feel grateful. Instead she just wants to lie face down on the bed and never move.


	14. The Finals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting early because of all the lovely (some v heartbroken) comments I got on last chapter. And also because it's pride weekend in vancouver. So happy pride!!  
> There's still more of the fic to come, but for now enjoy the longest chapter to date and the final judging. And hopefully everyone will forgive me for last week lol

Bernie is not at all prepared for Monday morning. She barely sleeps, spends most of the night tossing and turning trying to figure out how to approach Serena the next day. Should she act like nothing happened? No, that doesn’t seem like a good idea. Still, she won’t want to talk about it, will she? She wonders if Serena will still want to be friends with her, surely she won’t want to think about Bernie getting to take part in the finale that she won’t be a part of. The gnawing feeling in her stomach won’t go away and by the time Bernie pulls into the parking lot of Holby City Hospital she’s fretted herself into something bordering on full-blown panic. Maybe Serena won’t even want her on the ward anymore, will send her away and get a new trauma locum instead, she thinks. Can she even do that?

What Bernie would give for it to have been her who was kicked off. That would’ve been so much easier to manage. And anyway, she doesn’t deserve to win this thing, not like Serena does. Baking’s something Serena’s pursued, worked at her whole life and for Bernie it’s just something she picked up on a whim.

Well, okay, more than a whim. It was a bit of a lifeline when she was first back on medical leave. When she could count her recuperation by the length of time she could spend standing in the kitchen kneading dough or whipping egg whites. But it’s not the same, not at all. She wonders if she’ll be able to make Serena understand, but when she tries to think of what to say her mind goes blank and she knows she’ll fumble over the words.

How did she never stop and think about what would happen if she did better than Serena? Bernie guesses she’d never really considered it a possibility.

She gets to work early, has been awake for hours anyway so she figures she may as well just head in and get some work done. Seated in their—no, Serena’s—office she finds she has trouble concentrating on the paperwork in front of her. She can’t think about dosages and HR minutiae, not right now. She thinks about heading down to Pulse’s right before eight so Serena has a hot latte waiting for her when she comes in but think the better of it. Surely that would be too insistent an echo of their competition ritual.

So she sits, and she fidgets, and she does her best to look busy for the sake of anyone who might be coming past. She’s so intent on trying to at least look like she’s paying attention to the screen in front of her that she doesn’t hear Serena come in.

“Morning,” she says, soft and light, and Bernie jumps so high in her chair that she smacks one of her knees on the underside of the desk. “Sorry,” Serena says. Bernie’s looking at her now and she’s got a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

“No, no, that’s fine. I was, um, off in my own little world.” Bernie does her best to read Serena’s face, to attempt to discern how she’s feeling. She worries her lip with her teeth and wonders how to broach the subject.

“How was your drive home last night?” Serena asks as she takes a seat at her desk, pleasant as can be.

“Fine, yeah. Smooth sailing. Um, you? I mean, how was the train?” Bernie wishes she had the ability to sound like less of an absolute moron.

“Dreadful. One of those bloody uncomfortable new trains they’ve started running, my arse barely survived.”

“Well I’m glad it did,” Bernie replies, tries for a smile and gets one in return.

Serena opens her mouth, looks like she’s about to say something, but the shrill sound of the red phone ringing breaks through the moment and they’re both on their feet and out the door on the way to deal with it.

It’s not pretty, though trauma never is. The patient, maybe a decade older than Bernie herself was hit by a car while riding her motorcycle. The most severe injury is a massive puncture wound to the shoulder. A piece of metal is still sticking out, obviously cut off by the paramedics, and Bernie and Serena share a worried glance as they get to work.

They get the woman stabilised and into theatre, and there’s no time to think about baking or competitions or hurt feelings because a woman’s health and mobility are on the line. Bernie breathes out a silent thanks to the decades of training that take over, calm her mind, and reduce her focus to dealing with this one thing in front of her instead of worrying about anything else.

“Care to join me?” she asks Serena on the way to scrub in. “I could use your help,” she adds before Serena can answer, “I’m worried about the—”

“The subclavian artery?”

“Exactly. I’d love to have a vascular surgeon on my side.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I change into my scrubs,” Serena replies and Bernie nods, gives her a brief smile before rushing off.

For a long while there’s no time for any talk that doesn’t relate specifically to the work they’re trying to do. Get the piece of car or whatever out of the woman, get the bleeding stopped, get a look at the damage, and repair what they can. It’s brutal work and Bernie can only hope that they’ll be able to give the woman back full mobility, after the clavicle heals of course. The subclavian nerve is there too and if that’s been damaged… Well, she’s just grateful that the lung wasn’t punctured.

They manage to get a handle on the situation though, and then it’s more regularly paced surgery, find this, fix that, steady now, not rushed, and Bernie realises with a start that in here, at least, nothing has changed. In the rush of a trauma she and Serena worked together as well as they ever have. Each precisely where the other needed them to be. She looks up and over at Serena, meets her gaze and sees Serena’s eyes crinkle in the suggestion of a smile. She can see her looking around to take in the room full of people with them, nurses, anaesthetist, all people who can know nothing about where Bernie and Serena have been spending their weekends.

“Sorry about last night,” Serena says softly, calm as can be. “I was in a huff, I think I just needed some space.”

“No, of course. Completely understandable.” Bernie pauses to concentrate on the movement of her fingers for a moment. “Nothing to apologise for.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to think…” Serena trails off and Bernie waits patiently, knows she’ll get around to what she wants to say soon enough. “I’m not angry Bernie. Certainly not at you. I’m disappointed, yes, I think that’s only natural. But disappointed in myself, that I didn’t do as well as I could’ve. It’s nothing against you.”

“Okay,” Bernie says after a beat. “Okay.”

They leave it at that, for now, talk about the patient instead, about the work in front of them.

“Motorcycles,” Serena says in the tone of voice that Bernie’s sure is used by trauma specialists around the world when discussing them. “I mean, honestly. Do people not understand how dangerous they are? And at her age!”

“At her age! C’mon Serena, she’s not that much older than you and I.”

“Hmph, I guess not.”

“And motorcycles are fun,” Bernie says as nonchalant as she can.

“Don’t tell me  _you_...” Serena says.

“Sometimes,” Bernie shrugs. “I don’t own one anymore, haven’t for years now, or else I’d take you for a ride.” She expects Serena to snort at that suggestion but she looks at Bernie like she just might take her up on the offer, if it existed.

“Why not?” Serena asks instead, seems genuinely curious.

“Husband. Apparently if I wanted to ‘risk my neck in Afghanistan’ that was my business but to do it at home was ‘sheer foolishness’.”

“Bastard,” Serena replies and Bernie knows she’s smiling under that mask.

“Well,” she gestures down at the patient on the table, “he had a bit of a point.”

“Still, if Edward had tried to make me give up something I truly enjoyed I’d have gutted him.” Bernie has no doubt she would’ve. “And now?” Serena presses, “you’ve been divorced for five years, you haven’t bought a new one? As a sign of your freedom perhaps?”

“Packet of fags was just as good, as signs of freedom go,” Bernie replies. “A lot cheaper too. I did think about it for a while but I was never home much, and once I was, well…” She trails off not sure how to say that she’s not sure she could still ride, and that even if she could it seems foolhardy to waste the endless physiotherapy on something that could so easily put her back into that hospital bed.

“That makes sense,” Serena agrees, understanding immediately, just as she always does. “You know, Ms. Wolfe, you’re so spry it often makes me forget where you were a year and a half ago.”

Bernie laughs at that teasing tone, feels the last bit of tension leave her shoulders. She and Serena are somehow, miraculously, okay.

They get their patient into recovery, resume their regular duties. Surgery, paperwork, the endless work of two consultants on a busy surgical ward. They don’t see each other for anything other than to nod in passing for most of the day. But late afternoon finds them once again in the office. This time with nothing but the good natured ease they’ve always had hanging between them.

“You know…” Serena starts to speak, trails off as though she’s trying to decide whether to say the words or not.

“Hmm?” Bernie prompts her.

“I saw your kitchen last week; your baking setup is really quite abysmal.”

“It’s not so bad,” Bernie replies. Thinks of her wonky oven and broken stovetop, her lack of almost any tools or machines, knows she’s lying.

“Why don’t you, I mean, you need to be on your best form for the final, why don’t you come over to mine after work this week? Practice your bakes there?”

“Really?” Bernie can’t believe the offer. Surely that is too much, will hit too close to home.

“I at least have a fully-functioning hob,” Serena says with a grin. “And anyway, if I can’t be there to compete, I can at least make sure you’re as prepared as you can possibly be.”

“I don’t…” Bernie can feel her brow furrowing in confusion.

“It’s like at the Olympics, if you know you’re not going to medal you at least want the other chap from Britain to make it, eh?”

“So you’re saying we’re a team?” Bernie asks. “Team Holby?”

“Exactly. And of course this way I can take all the credit when you win,” Serena grins wide at her at that and Bernie likes that Serena, at least, thinks Bernie has a real chance at this.

“I’d love to,” Bernie says.

“W-would you?” Serena asks and Bernie smiles at her.

“As long as I’m not, um, rubbing salt in the wound, then, yes. Of course.”

“Good,” Serena says. “That’s settled then. We’ll head over straight after work then. No Albie’s, I hate to say, you need to be on top form.”

Bernie nods, feels like, if the Olympic analogy still stands, she may have just picked up the toughest coach in town.

Serena ends up giving Bernie a key and Wednesday and Friday off work. The perks of being friends with the boss, she tells Bernie with a wink. On Tuesday she gets a phone call from Anna, heads into the office to tell Serena about the conversation.

“I just got a call,” she says, wringing her hands. “About the film crews needing to come and film me getting ready for the final.”

“When are they coming over?” Serena asks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Are you sure? Surely, I mean, it’s a massive intrusion…” she trails off.

“Bernie, all of your cooking things are at my place, all of your recipes are at my place, all of your special ingredients are at my place. It hardly makes sense for you to haul it all back home for one day, does it?”

“No, but—”

“Did you not think I thought about this when I offered to let you use my kitchen?” Serena continues before Bernie can offer any further protestations.

“I, um, I just…”

“It’s fine Bernie. More than fine.”

“Okay, well then, if you’re sure… Thursday?”

“Perfect!” Serena stops then, “I shouldn’t assume,” she says, less assured than before. “Did you want me there? Or Ellie or Jason? I can make sure we’re out of the house the whole time, if you’d prefer.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own house, Serena. I’d love for you to be there, all of you. The producers will want to interview people anyway, get some sound bites for the episode, much better if there’s a couple of extra people to flesh everything out.”

“Perfect. Is Charlotte going to be there? I’d love to meet her officially.”

“I’ll see if she can make it,” Bernie says.

Between the producers, camera crews, and Serena, Bernie, Elinor, Jason, and Charlotte, Serena’s house is a bustling hive of activity come Thursday morning. Bernie gets started with baking something—she’s in the midst of preparing for the final showstopper so she has a lot of things going on. As she kneads dough she listens to Serena talk to the camera beside her.

“Well, Bernie’s flat’s kitchen is abysmal—”

“Hey!” Bernie protests. “It’s not that bad!”

“It is,” Serena tells the camera. “Absolutely abysmal. So being the incredibly good friend I am, I immediately offered up my kitchen for her to practice in.” Someone asks how she feels about not being in the final, and Serena is simultaneously candid and gracious in a manner Bernie envies. “Of course it’s hard,” she says, “I would love to be in that tent showing everyone what I can do. But it’s also very fun helping Bernie get ready, especially as I get to watch her get more and more anxious every passing day and I just get to put my feet up, crack open a bottle of shiraz, and watch the madness.”

“It’s very kind of Serena,” Bernie says when the questions turn to her, “to lend up her space like this. I’m of course very grateful. And between my daughter and Serena’s daughter and nephew I think I have just about the best taste-testing team in the country.”

“I keep telling her the bakes need more booze,” Serena interjects, nudging Bernie with her hip.

“She does!” Bernie agrees with a laugh. “I don’t think I have quite her touch with it though, so I’m going alcohol free, for safety. Wouldn’t want to give Paul a coronary in the finals.”

After the producers are satisfied with the interviews, they ask Bernie to just keep baking away so they can get a good variety of shots to work with. And then, after a spell, they ask Serena to join in as well, explain that it might be nice to give the public a few shots of two of the contestants working together for once.

Serena goes along with it gamely, plays around by asking Bernie for knives and measuring spoons like she’d ask for tools in theatre, and Bernie finds that soon she completely forgets that the cameras are there. She loves baking with Serena, it’s not really something they’ve ever done together—likely because they were both so busy preparing themselves for the competition. But she quickly finds that they work as well in a kitchen as they do in theatre, and Serena seems to read her mind even quicker here than at work. At one point, Bernie grabs a spoonful of mascarpone cream for a taste. When she puts it back down, she must have smeared some on the side of her mouth because Serena immediately reaches over. She places her fingers under Bernie’s chin, delicately swipes at the corner of Bernie’s mouth with her thumb. It’s like it happens in slow motion, Bernie feels every millisecond of the touch, the way Serena’s thumb feels swiping over her lips. And then, quick as can be, Serena’s pulling her hand away, darting her tongue out to lick the dollop of cream off of her thumb and Bernie’s heart is thudding hard in her chest.

She doesn’t know why she has such a visceral reaction to that, but she doesn’t have the time or the mental energy to think about it right now. So she puts it in the ‘think about later’ box in her mind and moves on. More baking, more filming, and then everyone streams out of the house in a big clump.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to see more of Charlotte,” Serena says, once it’s only her, Bernie, Elinor, and Jason left in the house. “I barely said hello to her and then we were busy. You’ll have to bring her around for supper once this whole thing is done.”

“Okay,” Bernie agrees immediately. Wonders if there’s anything Serena would ask for that she would say no to.

“Elinor likes her though, I think they spent most of the day together, when they weren’t needed down here.”

“I’m glad,” Bernie says.

“Me too, I don’t think Ellie’s had too many friends since, well, everything.”

“Mmm,” Bernie agrees. She hopes Charlotte will be a good influence on Elinor, but doesn’t know how to say it without sounding condescending.

“Elinor said she’s ‘nice if a bit swotty’, but apparently she thinks she can fix that, you know, make her less boring.” Serena’s grinning and Bernie knows she’s thinking of their phone conversation just a few weeks earlier.

Bernie honks with laughter.

“You Campbell women,” she says once she’s managed to catch her breath. “All the same.”

* * *

Friday comes much more quickly than Bernie would have liked, and before she knows it she’s sitting in a little restaurant in Bath with her fellow finalists, enjoying a post-meal drink.

“You know,” Jac says, taking a sip of her martini, “if I’m not mistaken this will be the first all-gay Bake Off finale.”

There’s a beat, just a moment while Raf and Bernie take in this information, something Jac hasn’t hinted at before to either of them. Or to anyone else, as far as Bernie knows. Huh, Bernie thinks. Okay.

“I think you’re right,” Raf says. “Well,” he raises his pint in the air with a grin, “to a very gay Bake Off.”

They laugh, clink their glasses against his.

“Someone should tell Sue,” Bernie says.

“Mmmm,” Raf agrees. “She’ll be disappointed she didn’t know in advance. I’m sure she’d’ve petitioned to change all the bunting in the tent to rainbows.”

They stay out for one more drink and then all agree to head back to the hotel at a reasonable hour so they can rest up before the big weekend. Bernie feels a pang of regret, wishes for an instant that she were staying out ridiculously late drinking as much shiraz as she could stomach. But it will be good to be well-rested for once, she thinks. When tomorrow comes, she’ll need as much help as she can get. Still—perhaps because of these fleeting thoughts of late nights and shiraz—when she’s back in her room and ready for bed, she grabs her phone, presses on Serena’s little face before she can think the better of it, and listens as the call rings through. Once, twice, and then.

“Ms. Wolfe, what a surprise.”

“You know, it’s half nine on a Friday night and I’m in bed,” she tells Serena without preamble.

“Oh really,” Serena’s voice is teasing, “and what are you wearing?”

“No,” Bernie rolls her eyes at her friend’s antics. “I mean I’m actually about to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, rather than staying up till all hours with you doing our best to cause a national shiraz shortage.”

“It’s official, your life is considerably more boring when I’m not there to make you have fun.”

“True.” They’re both silent for a few moments, Bernie picks at a stray thread on the hotel’s comforter. “I miss you,” she blurts out without thinking.

“Me too,” Serena replies.

“Sorry,” Bernie says immediately, as she realises how she must sound. “Obviously I shouldn’t be rubbing it in that I’m here and you’re not.”

“I don’t think that’s what you’re doing.”

It’s just… I can’t imagine walking into the tent tomorrow without you there.”

“You’re going to be great Bernie. You’re going to go into that tent and you’re going to bake everything just as you’ve practiced and you’re going to be amazing.”

“If you say so,” Bernie says. She’s hoping for passable. Decent. A good effort, at most.

“I do say so,” Serena’s voice holds all possible conviction. “And on Sunday I’ll be there on the grounds for the tea party and I’ll be cheering you on louder than anybody.”

“I asked them to sit you at my table,” Bernie tells her then, realises she didn’t mention it earlier. “You know how they have a family table for each contestant.”

“Okay,” Serena doesn’t sound surprised.

“You and Jason and Ellie of course.”

“Of course.”

“Otherwise it’ll just be Cam and Lottie and I’ll look pathetic.” And what’s more she wants Serena to be there. Can’t imagine Serena being anywhere else. Can’t imagine looking into the crowd and not seeing Serena at her table. Tries not to think too hard about why Serena fits so perfectly at her table, if only in her mind’s eye.

“We’ll be there, Bernie. Promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Now go to sleep, soldier. And give ‘em hell tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Bernie wakes early the next morning and takes herself for a brutally long run. She doesn't stop for coffee or pastries, somehow she knows a latte wouldn't be as fortifying if not accompanied my Serena's early morning smile. Instead she uses the extra time to sprint hard, running as fast as she can possibly stand until her lungs burn with the effort.

When she gets back to her room she checks her phone and sees a text from Serena. It's a photo of her sitting at her kitchen table, the collar of a silk dressing gown just visible. She's drinking coffee, smiling. And with the photo came a simple text: ‘good luck.’

It does more for Bernie's mood than three times her run ever would've.

Bernie gets dressed in the clothing Charlotte picked out for her. Her daughter had said she should go ‘full lesbian’ for the final week and though Bernie doesn’t really know what that means, she still trusts her fashion sense more than her own. She dons the dark blue skinny jeans, white vest, and red plaid shirt. The shirt stays unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up as per Lottie’s very explicit instructions. She shoves her feet into her nubuck boots and takes a critical look at herself in the mirror. Not bad. Though she still has no idea why Charlotte thinks she looks so much gayer in this than in anything else she owns.

She runs her hand through her hair and rushes down the stairs to the waiting the coach. The last thing she needs is to be late on the first day of the final. As they get ready, the atmosphere is undeniably tense. Bernie knows that she, Jac, and Raf respect and like each other and—to a certain extent—wish each other to do well. She also knows that every one of them wants to win this badly enough that friendship will do nothing to reign in their competitiveness.

She walks into the tent, puts her apron on, savours the actions knowing it’s the first of the last times she’s going to do that. This is it.

Mel and Sue are as energetic as ever, explaining the five-strand enriched dough braided signature challenge and the three and a half hours they’ll have to do it in with aplomb.

Sue’s cry of bake is loud enough that Bernie can only imagine it resonating throughout the grounds of Prior Park.

Conventionally, braided enriched doughs are sweet. Bernie has chosen to eschew convention for this challenge, as she explains to the judges when they come by her bench to discuss the bake.

“I am making a savoury braided dough with five different flavours.”

“Five?” Paul sounds shocked.

“Yes. So each strand of the braid has a different flavour. And they will be: pesto, sun-dried tomato, kalamata olive, fennel prosciutto, and caramelised onion.”

“Wow,” Paul says. “And they’re all made with one dough and then the flavour’s mixed in?”

“Exactly. I’m using mostly a high protein bread flour, with the addition of spelt and rye.”

“Certainly sounds interesting,” Mary says, “I look forward to trying those flavours together.”

Paul opens his mouth, looks like he’s about to say something, but instead just thanks her and moves on. Bernie doesn’t have time to worry about whatever Paul thinks is going to go wrong with her loaf, she just needs to get on with baking it.

Enriched doughs are called such because of the addition of fat to the dough, generally in the form of butter, eggs, or milk. Bernie is using all three. She starts by mixing together her flours, salt, yeast, milk, and eggs in the stand mixer with the dough hook. Once it’s formed a smooth and shiny dough, she adds her butter, little pieces at a time.

“The fat,” she explains to the camera while she works, “tenderizes the dough by coating and shortening the gluten strands. So you get a softer crust and a more tender crumb. The trial, of course, comes down to timing. Fat retards the yeast, so getting these loaves proofed enough will be a challenge.” She adds the last bit of butter. “I do have a bit of an advantage though,” she admits, “in large quantities sugar also hinders yeast, as it attracts all the water that the yeast needs. Because my dough doesn’t have sugar added it will rise a bit quicker than a traditional sweet enriched dough.” She gets the dough into an oiled bowl, and then into a large plastic bag, and places it in the proofing drawer, sets a timer for an hour.

While the dough proofs, Bernie gets started on her fillings. First she chops up her onion.

She cuts it into thin strips, has found onions caramelise better in larger pieces, will cut them up into smaller bits later. She sets a frying pan on the hob over medium heat, melts a large pat of butter, and then adds the onions. Caramelised onions, good ones, take time. She checks on the pan every five to ten minutes, scrapes up the fond as necessary, adjusts the heat when she feels they’re browning too fast, and otherwise leaves them alone.

For the pesto, she cooks pine nuts over low heat until golden, then places them in a food processor with a bunch of fresh basil. She adds romano and garlic, pulses the mixture until everything’s in tiny little pieces. Then, with the machine running, she pours in olive oil in a slow steady stream, processes the mixture until smooth, and finally adds salt and pepper to taste. She chops up the sun-dried tomatoes, kalamata olives, and proscuitto, uses a mortar and pestle to grind up the fennel.

Once the onions have been cooking for fifty minutes, Bernie pulls them off the heat and deglazes the pan. She pours in a hefty helping of balsamic vinegar—smiles fondly as she remembered Serena’s horror that she doesn’t use shiraz for this—and while it bubbles, she scrapes up the fond and mixes it all together. Now she chops the onions up into smaller pieces, sets them aside, and checks on her dough.

It’s risen well, passes the test when she pokes it, and so she pulls it out and uses a scale to divide the dough into five equal portions. Then she kneads the fillings into each piece respectively. When each portion has its flavourings, she rolls them out into equal-length strands, and gets to braiding.

Five strand braided loaves aren’t that common—the classics are three and six—and it’s considered one of the toughest braids out there, but Bernie’s practiced this one enough that she has a pretty good grasp on how it goes. Still, she brought a cheat sheet with her just in case.

“You know,” Sue says leaning over her shoulder, “this looks very ‘Rain Man.’”

“The stream of numbers?” Bernie asks.

“Yeah!”

“I know. It does make sense, though, if you know what you’re doing.” Bernie hopes desperately as she says it that she knows what she’s doing. “It should end up ‘sea-shell’ shaped, at least that’s how I’ve seen it described.”

She starts with all five strands gathered together at the top, with the strands separated: two on one side, three on the other. Numbers them in her head as 1 to 5, left to right. She lifts 1 and 5, brings 5 over to the left of 2, places 1 on the right of 2. Then she twists 1 and 2, putting 1 directly right of and parallel to 5. 2 goes beside 3. 4 comes up, goes between 5 and 1, then 5 gets brought over to go between 1 and 2. 5 and 1 then get twisted, so 5 ends up beside 4 and 1 is beside 2. Then the process starts all over again, until all the dough is used.

The trick is, beyond keeping the strands straight (and it does help that Bernie’s are all different colours) is to keep the braid the same tightness all the way along. It needs to be tight enough to give the loaf good structure but not so tight that the dough can’t grow during the second proof.

When she’s done, she presses the ends of the strands together, and then turns the loaf so what was once the right of the loaf is now the top. She looks the loaf over and sighs in relief: the braid looks just like it should, with the top showing parallel strands of dough running at an angle the length of the loaf. She sets the loaf on a baking tray, puts it back into the plastic bag and into the proofing drawer once more. The loaf needs one more hour to proof before getting baked.

She preheats her oven to 200 and has a seat on her stool to wait just as Sue calls out that they’re halfway through the challenge.

“You know,” she overhears Jac telling Sue a few minutes later, “we were talking last night and we came to the conclusion that this is the first ever all-gay Bake Off final.”

Bernie listens to Sue’s exclamations of delight. Sue calls Mel over to share the news, then crows loudly about the fact that the tent is, crew not included, currently more gay than straight. Bernie overhears her, a few minutes later, asking Anna if it might be possible to get some rainbow bunting hung up ‘tout suite’, and smiles to herself that their predictions were so on point.

The hour passes surprisingly quickly, and soon Bernie is pulling her dough out of the proofing drawer, brushing it with egg wash, and popping it into the oven. She wonders, as she sits down in front of her oven to watch the bake, what it will be like to go back to normal baking after this whole thing is done. She wonders if she’ll be instinctually looking around for someone to tell that she’s about to put a pan in the oven and snorts to herself at the idea.

For a while, Mel comes and sits on the floor beside her, chats with her about her hopes and aspirations for the challenge.

“I mean obviously I’d love to win,” she tells her, “but Raf and Jac are truly phenomenal bakers. It would be an honour to lose to either of them.”

Her loaf takes exactly thirty-five minutes to bake, and when Bernie pulls it from the oven she finds it to be beautifully browned, and hollow-sounding when she taps on the bottom of the loaf with her finger.

There’s still ten minutes left in the challenge but Bernie doesn’t have anything else to do. She sets her loaf in the basket she brought with her, runs her fingers over the beautiful floral cloth it’s lined with—loaned to her by Serena, it was her mother’s apparently and Bernie’s incredibly touched by the gesture, she knows how important baking was to Serena’s relationship with her mum. And then she sits back and watches the team of home economists clear all the varied baking tools from her bench and take them to the sinks at the back of the tent.

According to what Serena learned from chatting with one of the crew members over a coffee break, all the washing up in the tent is done by hand because commercial dishwashers were too loud and disrupted the sound while filming. Bernie’s always impressed with the speed of the dishwashers. There’s certainly a lot of elbow grease involved in cleaning up after all the messes she and her fellow contestants have made—scrubbing a crystallised attempt at caramel out of the bottom of the pot by hand is not easy, Bernie should know: she’s had to do it often enough at home.

Mel calls out the end of the challenge, and there’s a break where the contestants all go outside and get interviewed, then it’s back into the tent for judging.

Bernie watches intently as Paul and Mary go to Raf’s bench first. His five strand loaf is chocolate flavoured, with two dark chocolate strands, two milk chocolate strands, and one white chocolate strand. The bake looks very good, as does the bake, and when Paul slices through he and Mary immediately comment on how good the crumb is. They praise the flavour as well, on the individual strands and the loaf as a whole, and then Paul reaches over to give Raf a Hollywood Handshake. It’s a bit of a hit, if Bernie’s honest, watching one of the other contestants get such an accolade in the final, but she’s sure that Raf’s loaf deserved it.

Next up is Jac. Her sweet braided loaf has two lemon flavoured strands, two vanilla strands, and two raspberry strands. It’s an interesting idea, such a fruity loaf, and Jac’s used bits of candied lemon and freeze-dried raspberry to enhance the taste. The addition of poppy seeds on top of the loaf is, to Bernie’s mind, genius. A hint of nuttiness to balance out the fruit.

The judges agree. The bake is beautiful, they tell Jac, with a beautiful open crumb. The braiding is precise, perfect, two words that sum up Jac’s whole baking style. And while Paul admits to being hesitant on the flavours when he first heard of them, he was soon won over by the taste. And then there it is: a second Hollywood Handshake and Bernie’s stomach drops even further.

It’s unheard of that all three finalists would get a Handshake on the signature, the most Bernie can remember ever getting at once is two, and so when her judging starts Bernie is sure that she’s started her day at the bottom of the pack.

She sets her face in a what she hopes is a pleasant, neutral expression and waits for the verdict. Mary comments immediately on the lovely bake Bernie’s loaf has, on the nice open crumb when Paul cuts it open.

“I do like the flavours,” she says after she tries a piece, “I wasn’t sure I would, so many strong flavours in one loaf like this, but they do complement each other very nicely. And you’ve done well to not make one flavour overpowering.” She smiles at Bernie, “and with all those flavours, you don’t really need anything else. It’s nice to have a piece of bread that doesn’t need a topping.”

Paul, on the other hand, has stayed silent.

“These flavours…” he begins, finally. “Like Mary said, you’re working with such strong flavours each on their own, and bringing them all together like this, well, it shouldn’t work.” He pauses for a long moment before continuing, “I say shouldn’t, because they do. It’s absolutely gorgeous, the flavours are all balanced but they complement each other so well. The sweetness from the onions and the basil does a lot to balance out the saltiness from the olives and the prosciutto, the sun-dried tomato has just the right note, and the hint of fennel in there… It’s gorgeous.” He lifts his hand up and extends it across the table and Bernie’s so shocked that Paul has to prompt her to accept the handshake. “C’mon,” he says, and she lifts her hand up to clasp his, still in a daze.

“Well what the hell does that even mean?” Jac asks as they head out of the tent and Bernie barks out a laugh.

“Maybe Paul’s going soft,” she offers.

“Or we really are the best bakers in the country,” Raf says.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Jac says with a grin, and then they’re all split up for their interviews.

There’s a little break between signature and technical, long enough for them to have a seat and eat something. They try each other’s breads and they really are all fantastic. Bernie meant what she said to Mel earlier: she knows that Raf and Jac are phenomenal bakers and she might be disappointed if she doesn’t win, but she won’t question that they deserved it.

Next, they head back into the tent for the technical challenge. Bernie’s been worrying quite a bit about what Paul and Mary have set for this challenge, and she’s sure that it’s going to be a doozy. It’s the final, and from what she can remember from watching other seasons, she’ll be lucky if the recipe even contains a list of ingredients.

“Welcome Bakers!” Mel says, “to your final technical challenge. Now, Paul and Mary, as you know this bake is judged blind, and as Paul used his safe-word when we pulled out the blindfolds I’m afraid you’re just going to have to leave the tent.”

“Sorry Mary,” Sue says, “Paul’s ruined a good time for you yet again.” They watch the judges leave, and then they turn back around to the contestants.

“Now,” Mel says, “today Paul and Mary would like you to make twelve identical financiers. Also known as visitandines.”

“You have forty-five minutes to make these.”

“On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

At the word, Bernie yanks off the gingham cover and pulls the recipe to her. It’s predictably sparse. There’s a list of ingredients—with quantities thank god—butter, almonds, confectioners' sugar, egg whites and flour.

The instructions are: ‘make a beurre noisette, combine with other ingredients, bake until done.’ A nice easy to follow list of things to do, and so much time to do it in too! She doesn’t know what temperature to bake them at, but chooses 190, it feels like a safe bet.

At the very least, she knows beurre noisette is just browned butter, so she gets the butter in a saucepan over medium heat so it can melt. Bernie doesn’t know much about financiers, apart from the fact that they’re little cakes, but she’s sure that they don’t have whole chunks of almond in them. When she’s seen them around, she’s fairly certain they haven’t had any chunks whatsoever, so she goes with her instincts and pulses the almonds in a food processor until they’re finely ground.

She sees Jac and Raf doing the same thing, but she doesn’t know if that’s because they were planning to do it anyway or because they’re following her lead. She keeps an eye on the melted butter, waits for it to foam up and change colour to a deep nutty brown, and then snags it off the heat. She combines the other ingredients with the ground almonds, and then goes to add the butter. As it’s a beurre noisette, she figures it must be added hot, but Bernie thinks if she dumps it in all at once she runs the risk of cooking the egg whites. She decides to add it in gradually, whisking vigorously as she goes.

Once the whole thing’s mixed together into a smooth batter, she portions it out between the twelve little moulds they’ve been given, eye-balls it and wishes she had the time to put them all on a scale to check that they’re identical. The moulds go onto a baking tray, and are then popped into the oven. She sets a timer for ten minutes, and kneels down in front of the oven to watch them bake.

They’re such small cakes, that Bernie can’t think they’ll need very long at all. But at ten minutes they’re still raw. Five minutes later, they’re still not to where she wants them, but two minutes later she figures they look to be a nice enough brown colour. She pulls them from the oven, has a bit of a job popping them out of their tins without burning herself (she’s mostly successful), and has her financiers on the plate provided when Mel announces that the challenge is over.

It's outside then, for more interviews, and then back inside for judging. Everything goes so much quicker, just the three of them, and Bernie's happy that it's them. She likes Raf and Jac so much, and while she's sad that Serena’s not there she privately thinks it might be easier like this. With Jac and Raf Bernie can put all of her power into besting them. We're it to come down to her and Serena… well. Bernie doesn't think she'd throw the competition per se, but she would want Serena to win so much that… It’s better in a lot of ways like this, and that’s that.

Still, best of all would've been for Serena to end up in the final rather than she, then Bernie could've happily sat on the side-lines and cheered her to victory. Bernie would’ve been more than content to do that, she thinks she’d make a decent cheerleader.

She turns her attention back to the front of the tent, in time to see Paul and Mary walk back in. Paul rubs his hands together as he looks down at the financiers on offer.

“Well Mary,” he says for the last time this year, “shall we start over here?” Mary nods and follows him over and they stand before Jac’s financiers, looking them all over critically.

“These are a good size,” Mary says, “with a nice even bake.” She and Paul each take a bite.

“Good flavour,” Paul says. But the crumb’s closer than I'd like. And I don't think the almonds were ground fine enough, there's little chunks that shouldn't be there.”

Bernie's are okay as well, though the flavour isn't quite there and the size not as even as the judges want, and Raf’s are uneven in bake: some dark brown at the edges, others pale gold.

In the end, Bernie gets second. Raf third, and Jac cinches first. A good showing from all of them, though, and they head out to more interviews.

After, there's more filming to be done, more shots of each of them mixing and working and baking away. Bernie wonders idly if it'll be obvious when she watches the show what was filmed in extra bits later on. She imagines watching the episodes with Serena, maybe at Serena’s house with their kids grouped around, tensing as they know the successes and failures imminently at hand. It's awfully presumptuous of her, she knows, but she can't help but feel like Serena will want that too.

She doesn't call Serena that night after dinner. She wants to, but she doesn't want to disturb her. Instead she lays down and tries to sleep.

When she awakens in the middle of the night and runs to the loo for a pee she checks her phone and sees a text Serena sent hours before.

‘I missed your voice tonight,’ it says and Bernie smiles down at the screen. ‘Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be the one in the crowd cheering the loudest.’ There's a few emojis then, clapping hands and trophies and garish smiling yellow faces. Bernie puts the phone down on the side table, falls back asleep immediately with a wide smile on her face.

She wakes up early the next morning and runs until she can barely breathe. She walks back to the hotel to cool down, showers and dresses in the same clothes as the day before, prays she looks presentable enough.

It's odd, really, to think that they're almost at the end of this whole thing. How many months has she spent on this endeavour, from the first applications to now? She doesn't know what she'll do with her weekends now. Perhaps she'll be able to convince Serena to join her in some baking. Likes the idea of whiling the hours away with her instead of alone. But before she can do that, before she can dwell on such peaceful imaginings, she needs to finish this.

She, Raf, and Jac share tense smiles as they meet at the coach. They murmur words of good luck to each other, and then climb aboard. It's tense this morning, tenser than it's ever been, and Bernie doesn't expect anything less. All three of them will be doing their best to win, no question of that.

Hair and makeup and other preparations seem to drag on forever and Bernie is relieved when they finally end up in front of Mel, Sue, and the judges, aprons on and raring to go. Bernie’s done two full attempts of this showstopper in preparation, only one timed, and she knows that it’s going to be a struggle from start to finish.

Mel and Sue lay it out for them, the afternoon tea showstopper challenge. Each of them will need to bake one victoria sandwich, twenty-four finger sandwiches, twelve rock cakes, twelve crème brûlées, and twelve savoury tarts using any pastry of their choosing. They have six hours in which to get that all done, and Mel and Sue take care to remind them that the judges are expecting perfection in every aspect of these bakes. And then, for the last time, Bernie hears the evocative cry of ‘Bake!’ and she sets to work.

Bernie starts with the bread that will form her sandwiches, a very simple white loaf made with melted butter for a soft crumb. She kneads it by hand even though she knows she would save precious moments by using a machine, lets the simple practiced movements calm her before she moves on to everything else.

Next she works on the puff pastry that will form the base of her tarts, gets the lean dough wrapped around the butter and the whole lot chilling and resting by the time Paul and Mary have come to speak with her about how she's getting along.

“Ah yes,” she says when they ask, “I'll be making a Victoria sandwich with fresh strawberries and mascarpone cream, smoked salmon, wasabi, and radish finger sandwiches, cranberry, ginger, and white chocolate rock cakes, café au lait crème brûlées, and roasted tomato puff pastry tarts.”

It's quite the mouthful and Bernie answers their myriad questions about this bake and that before they move on. She needs to keep baking, there's so much to be done. She does a turn on her pastry, gets it back in the fridge, and turns her attention towards the rock cakes.

She starts by chopping up stem ginger into little pieces and then white chocolate into slightly larger chunks. Thankfully rock cakes are easy, over all, and Bernie rubs her butter into a sifted mixture of flour, baking powder, ground ginger, and salt, while thinking about everything else she needs to do. The bread should be ready fairly soon, she’ll have to check on how it's rising. She thinks she’ll make her sponges next, and then turn her attention to the crème brûlées, keeping an eye on her pastry as she does so. She adds the stem ginger, cranberries, and chocolate chunks to the bowl, mixes them in along with the brown sugar. Then she adds a mixture of egg, milk, and a bit of the syrup from the container of stem ginger, whisked together in a separate bowl before being added in. When she has a crumbly mix just holding together, she nods in satisfaction and plops carefully measured spoonfuls onto a baking tray. A large ice cream scoop, levelled off, ensures that her rock cakes will all be the same shape and size, and the little metal piece that skims the bottom of the scoop, when squeezed, helps usher the mixture onto the pan.

She gets those into the preheated oven and baking, they won’t take long, and does another turn of her pastry as she waits. She checks on her dough as well, it’s not quite risen enough, and she leaves it in the proofing drawer for a bit longer.

The victoria sponges go quickly, she creams all the ingredients together into a smooth batter, and then divides it evenly between two pans. She gets these in the oven on the rack below the rock cakes. She has only one timer so she mentally notes how long she had left on the rock cakes and how much longer the sponges will need.

For the crème brûlées, she brings cream, sugar, espresso, and vanilla to a boil. She removes it from the heat, then adds some of the mixture to a bowl holding her eggs, whisking to keep the yolks from cooking. By the time she’s got that done, the rock cakes are ready to go, and she pulls them out of the oven and places them on a cooling rack, before turning back to the egg mixture. She adds in the rest of the hot cream mixture a bit at a time, whisking as she goes. When she’s got it all mixed together, she strains it into another bowl.

At that point, her sponges are almost done. She gives them a couple of minutes longer, then slides them onto cooling racks of their own, gratified to see they slide nicely out of the pan. She turns the oven temperature down a ways to prepare for the crème brûlées. The sponges look good, she’s happy with them, and with the rock cakes too. She checks on her bread dough again, before continuing on with the crème brûlées, finds it ready to go.

She presses the dough down, dimpling it with her fingers, then stretches it and rolls it into a log. She places this log in the bread pan, a pullman pan, to be exact, an almost square pan with a lid on top. The pan will make for an even rectangular prism of a loaf, much easier to work with for the delicate sandwiches she’ll be making, and it keeps the bread from forming any large air bubbles, giving a decidedly more even crumb. She places the log of dough in the pan, closes the lid, places it in the proofing drawer, and moves on.

Bernie chooses to do the last turn of the pastry before going back to the crème brûlées, gets her dough rolled out, folded, and into the fridge for a final rest before she starts dividing the custard and coffee mixture between twelve little oven-safe coffee mugs. She places the mugs in a pan, places it on an oven rack before pouring in enough water to cover about a third of the way up the sides of the mugs.

They’ll need to bake for about half an hour, give or take, so Bernie sets a timer for twenty-five minutes and then she just sort of stands there, not quite sure what she should do next.

“Can I help you Bernie?” Mel asks, coming up to her. She’s obviously noted her confusion.

“Ummm,” Bernie says. “Just trying to figure out what to do next.”

Mel kindly talks her through her next steps: she needs to get her fillings ready for the sandwiches and prepare the filling for her tomato tarts to get baked. Mel moves aside as Bernie rushes to grab a cutting board and some utensils, brushing off an offer of further help. For the tarts, she slices up little cherry tomatoes, tosses them in a bowl with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper. She spreads all this on a parchment paper lined baking sheet and sets it aside.

For the sandwiches, she mixes together cream cheese, wasabi paste, and lime zest, sets it aside, and then thinly slices her radishes. She gets her slices of smoked salmon ready as well, and then pulls her puff pastry out of the fridge.

It looks good. She rolls it out, cuts it into twelve little rounds and gets those on a baking sheet as well, docking them all over save for the edges to keep them from rising too much in the oven. She checks on her crème brûlées, shakes one of the ramekins to check for the wobble and deems it acceptable. She pulls them out, turns the oven up a bit, and gets her bread in the oven next.

While the loaf of bread bakes, she roasts her tomatoes on another rack, swaps them out for the pan of puff pastry when they’re nicely browned and shrivelled. She’s vaguely aware, at some point, of Sue calling out that they’re halfway through the challenge. She doesn’t really know when exactly that happens, but knows she speeds up her actions as soon as she hears it.

She whips up her mascarpone cream next: mascarpone, heavy cream, sugar, and a bit of vanilla extract, leaves the stand mixer to do its thing as she slices up the strawberries.

She gets her bread out of the oven and cooling, puts the roasted tomatoes on the rounds of puff pastry, sprinkles them with gruyère and chopped fresh thyme, and gets them back into the oven for a spell. She assembles the victoria sandwich next, spreading on a generous amount of the mascarpone cream, then a layer of strawberries, then the second sponge. She dusts the whole cake with caster sugar, garnishes it with a couple halved strawberries on top, and sets it to the side. That and the rock cakes are done, at least.

The crème brûlées need to be topped with Chantilly cream, so she gets a clean bowl and whip onto the stand mixer, pours in some heavy cream and sets it to whisking, stopping by after a bit to add a couple spoonfuls of sugar. The crème brûlées she sprinkles with sugar, and then uses a blowtorch to caramelise the sugar and get the signature crust. Once they’ve cooled, she gives each a garnish of whipping cream, sets the mugs on saucers with spoons, and gets them to the end of her bench with the rock cakes and the victoria sandwich.

For the sandwiches, she cuts sixteen carefully even slices of the bread, takes two and lays one down. She smears it with the cream cheese mixture, adds a careful row of radish slices, then coats the other piece of bread with the cream cheese as well. That goes down on the first piece. Then, the top of the sandwich gets a thin layer of the cream cheese, on top of which goes the smoked salmon. When she’s done all that, she cuts the corners away and slices the lot into three delicately size sandwiches. Then she repeats that process seven more times for a total of twenty-four sandwiches. They’re garnished with micro shiso leaves and pepper, and then placed with everything else.

The tomato tarts, pulled from the oven in the midst of everything else, get garnished with sprigs of fresh basil and added to the impressive pile of goodies at the end of Bernie’s bench, just as Mel announces that the challenge is over.

Bernie breathes out a hefty sigh of relief, and takes a long look at Jac’s, Raf’s, and her own benches. They’re veritably laden with food. Bernie can’t quite believe the immensity of what the three of them accomplished in the time given. Really, if Bake Off wanted to feed an army they probably could at this point. When they step outside for pre-judging interviews, and get a chance to have some water and freshen up, Bernie can hear the sounds of the party coming from a nearby stretch of grass. She remembers all of a sudden that Serena will be there, and her heart tightens in her chest.

She gives what she hopes is a nice enough interview, and then heads back into the tent, flanked by Jac and Raf, to hear the verdict of the day. It’s odd, having baked this many things. Bernie is sure that there will be problems with some of them—hopefully not all—but it’s almost harder to obsess over when there’s so many things she’s done. It was much easier to mentally pick apart one bake for flaws while awaiting judgement. She hardly remembers the last six hours, anyway.

She stands quietly while Raf walks his assortment up for judging, aided by Mel and Sue. He announces his bakes one by one for the judges. He’s made a cherry almond victoria sandwich, loaded with cherries and cream and garnished with almonds, spicy avocado egg salad sandwiches on gorgeously dark pumpernickel, chocolate rock cakes drizzled with chocolate ganache, maple crème brûlées, and little shortcrust savoury egg tarts with one perfectly baked egg in each. The bakes all look good, from what Bernie can see, and the judges seem to agree. The victoria sandwich is a smash hit, as are the tarts. The sandwiches have a bit too much kick for Paul and Mary’s taste, but the bread is beautifully baked. The crème brûlées are creamy, with a lovely top, but perhaps a bit too sweet, as far as Paul’s concerned. The rock cakes underwhelm as well, not through any particular fault but more a lack of anything noteworthy.

Bernie’s up next, and she makes it to the front of the tent without tripping or dropping anything, still a fear even after all these weeks. She’s glad to hear that the judges like what she’s made. The victoria sponge is praised for the light sponge and delicately balanced mascarpone cream. The sandwiches are a hit as well. Mary likes the rock cakes more than Paul, who seems unsure about the flavour combination of the ginger, cranberry, and white chocolate. The crème brûlées are well-received as well, and they rave about her tomato tarts. Overall, Bernie thinks it a very good judging indeed, and she happily returns to her bench to watch how Jac fairs.

Jac’s spread is, unsurprisingly, impressive. Her victoria sandwich is made of orange and poppy seed sponges, sandwiched with orange marmalade and cream. Her finger sandwiches are turkey, apple, and goat cheese on a cranberry orange bread. She’s gone with traditional rock cakes, and chocolate crème brûlées, and her tarts are asparagus and radish tarts with pesto and ricotta on puff pastry. The judges love her victoria sandwich, laud her finger sandwiches, disagree on the crème brûlées, and take issue with the rock cakes (they’re over-baked).

When the judging’s over, Raf pulls Bernie and Jac into a group hug in the middle of the tent, and they all whisper their congratulations to one another. As they head outside for interviews, Bernie runs the judging results over again in her mind. It’s going to be close, that’s for sure. Privately, Bernie thinks that it will probably be Jac, she’s been consistently good this entire competition. However, Raf has shown increasing ability and flair. And his bakes looked beautiful today. It would be nice, she thinks, for his family if he were to win. And herself? She thinks she might have a chance, but not much of one, not after how well the other two did.

These last interviews are lengthy, obviously wanting to make sure everything they may need an opinion on has been covered, and it begins to sink in for Bernie that this is truly the end. After today she’ll be done. She’s rather excited for her life to return to some semblance of normal. Or, as normal as her life will ever get, considering she moves around the country every few months.

When the producers are satisfied, the three finalists are gathered up to join the party, the sounds of which have been floating through the afternoon air towards them while they waited.

Bernie walks out onto the grounds and towards the party of people amassed on the grass with a massive tray holding her bakes in her hands and the thought ‘don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip’ running through her mind. When she reaches the group of people she lets her eyes scan the crowd, looking for her kids, looking for Serena. She finds them, at the table furthest away from her, is glad to see Jason and Cam seated beside each other, heads bent together, Elinor and Charlotte seated beside each other, both on their phones.

She greets her children with hugs, says hello to Jason and Elinor, and then Serena envelops her in a warm embrace.

“How did it go?” she asks her and Bernie shrugs.

“Okay, I think. Hard to say, really.”

They all sit down at the table, start trying her bakes and commenting on them. Bernie’s glad to hear that Jason thinks the tomato tarts went ‘even better than the test bakes’. She’s able to forget for a bit, that’s there’s still more to the competition, a verdict to be heard. Instead she concentrates on her table, her friends and family.

Everyone’s there, at the party, all the old contestants and their families. Bernie gets swept up in a whirlwind of greeting them all, thankfully with Serena at her side for most of it. Bernie’s always happy not to have to carry the conversation on her own.

There’s Essie, and Bernie’s happy to see her, very much considers her part of the group even if she was the first to leave. She meets Essie’s husband and three teenagers and immediately forgets their names. Sacha’s there, of course, in a ridiculous shirt, and Bernie soon learns that his wife Helen is just like him: kind and jovial, quick to laugh. She’s a good few centimetres taller than him, wearing a shirt almost as bright, and Bernie immediately feels at ease in her presence.

Henrik is there too, though Bernie doesn’t see him until a bit later. As quiet and composed as ever, hovering about the edges of the party and already looking like all the hubbub may be too much for him. Bernie gives him a nod of understanding, one introvert to another, and doesn’t try to engage him in conversation for too long.

Ric is of course there and Bernie’s surprised to see a woman on his arm, considering his comments about marriage and the like. She and Serena wait until he’s alone to bombard him with teasing commentary, but Francoise is intelligent and beautiful and Bernie immediately understands what Ric sees in her.

“I expect to be invited to the wedding,” Serena murmurs to him after a few minutes, quirks her eyebrow at the protestations that quickly die on his lips. She and Bernie giggle to each other as they watch him with her, make sure to catch his eye a couple times so he knows they’re quietly mocking him, even from yards away.

Morven immediately envelops both Bernie and Serena in an exuberant hug as soon as she sees them, then introduces her husband Arthur to them. He’s more quiet than Morven, comes across as rather staid and Bernie notes how well they complement each other.

Zosia, Bernie saw, was sitting at Jac’s table when the finalists came out to join the crowd and Bernie realises that she hadn’t noticed how close they’d gotten. She seems well when she comes over to say hi to Bernie and Serena, as full of life as ever, and they chat for a while about their lives before she’s pulled away to chat with someone else.

Mo comes by, introduces them to Derwood, her husband, and baby Hector, now ten months old. Bernie happily takes the baby into her arms, swinging him into the air and relishing his little gurgling laugh. Bernie’s always liked kids, even babies. They’re fun, and a lot more simple than adults. She and Serena are more than happy to play with the little boy for a spell, getting him to smile and laugh in their arms.

“You’re welcome to come babysit literally any time,” Mo says. “Seriously. Any time.” Bernie laughs and remembers what it was like, with Cam, at that age. Recognizes that tone of voice, tinged with a special flavour of exhaustion only felt by parents.

And then, of course, there’s Dom. He’s all smiles and wisecracks and Bernie’s very happy to see him again. He’s looking well, has shown up to the party with an extraordinarily beautiful man who he introduces simply as Reeve—an underwear model he met through work, he later divulges to Bernie. She leaves both boys chatting with Cam and Elinor as she and Serena go to talk with the other finalists.

Jac’s table is bustling with people, so they chat briefly with Jac before moving on. Raf’s table is busy as well, but that’s mostly because of the kids. Bernie gets introduced first to Fletch, Raf’s husband, gets the sense of a steady cheerful man with a keen wit. And then she gets to meet the kids. There’s Evie, the oldest, almost a teenager by the look of her and Bernie sees her eyes light up when Raf mentions that Bernie and Serena are both surgeons. Mikey’s next, Bernie’s heard enough stories to know that he’s a little troublemaker, wonders if he’s as bad as Cam was at that age. Ella hides her face in Raf’s legs when he tries to introduce her, three, did Raf say? No, four, Bernie thinks. Just turned four. She remembers how hers got shy at that age. Last of all is baby Theo, old enough to be walking but young enough that it’s still more stumble and lurch than coordinated action. He warms to Serena immediately and soon lets Bernie pick him up and swing him around, loving the attention. Bernie places him up on her shoulders for a bit, holds his hands to keep him steady as they walk around the party, mingling with the family and friends all gathered there.

They’re sweet kids, the lot of them, though Bernie can’t imagine raising four. Two was more than enough for her.

“You’re a natural with them,” Serena says after Bernie’s returned Theo to his dads.

“I like kids,” Bernie replies. “They’re, um, straightforward. Easier than adults.”

Serena just nods, like that’s what she’d been expecting Bernie to say, and then she steers Bernie back to her table, back to their little group to have a drink of water and a much needed break from all the socialising.

Not much later, they’re informed that the judges have made their decision. Bernie sits beside Serena and feels as though her entire body is thrumming with energy. It’s only after Serena puts one calming hand on her knee that Bernie realises she was bouncing it nervously. She watches as Mel, Sue, Mary, and Paul make the trek from the tent to the party, Mary holding the glass Great British Bake Off cake stand and the other three carrying large bouquets of flowers.

“Finalists!” Mel calls out, “get up here, you wonderful wonderful bakers, you!”

Bernie feels clumsy standing up and moving over to the front of the crowd. She throws a glance over her shoulder and catches Serena’s gaze. Gets an encouraging smile and the barest suggestion of a wink and feels all the steadier for it. No matter what the results are, Bernie will be happy with what she’s accomplished here. She’s gotten the best prize anyone could ever get. She gives Serena a little smile in response and then turns her attention to Mel and Sue.

“You are all,” Sue says then, “incredible. We have seen from the three of you some of the most impressive bakes to ever grace the tent. Of course, there can only be one winner, and so it is my absolute joy and pleasure to announce that the winner of the Great British Bake Off 2017 is,” she pauses for a long moment, Bernie bites her lip as she waits, feels her entire body tense. “Bernie!” Sue says and Bernie cannot believe her ears. She can hear the crowd reacting behind her, is sure the loud whoop of joy was Cam but she still doesn’t quite believe what she’s hearing. She’s the winner? Her?

Jac and Raf are congratulating her and Bernie has a split second where she feels completely numb, like nothing is real, and then she lets the truth of the day sink in and she’s overwhelmed. Bernie wanted to win this, certainly, came every week with the intention to do the best she possibly could, but she never really thought she  _could_. She accepts the glass cake stand, the flowers, the judge’s congratulations, and feels the weight of the emotions she feels threaten to overwhelm her. She doesn’t want to cry on camera, doesn’t want to cry in front of the whole country that’s for sure, can feel tears pricking her eyes but manages to keep them at bay.

Bernie Wolfe ex-army divorcee with a scar on her neck and a screwed up back was good enough to win this. It’s somehow all the more meaningful by not being anything to do with work, not the product of something she’s dedicated her life to.

It’s new, still, new and exciting and it makes Bernie feel like she’s bursting with possibility.

Serena comes up and hugs her so tightly that Bernie can barely breathe. She pulls back after a moment, brings her hands up and cups Bernie’s face gently.

“I am so proud of you,” she tells her softly.

“It was, um,” Bernie shrugs, purses her lips, “I did it for you.” It’s the truth. Even if she didn’t quite know it until that very moment. Serena wanted her to do well and so Bernie did the best she possibly could. Because Serena thought that her best would be enough. And guess what? Serena was right.

And then Serena’s hugging her again, close and tight, her nose nuzzled into Bernie’s neck and Bernie thinks she could quite happily stay in this moment forever.

She hugs her kids next, smiles at their exuberance, accepts Jason’s congratulatory handshake and Elinor’s absent-minded nod with the same smile. She gets a few minutes of peace, then, eats cake with her family, with Serena’s family, smiles around at all of them and doesn’t know if she’s ever smiled so much in her life. She feels happy. Completely, utterly happy. It’s a strange feeling, like balancing at the edge of a cliff—up so high but with so far to fall. She’s not quite sure if it suits her. But then Serena squeezes her knee and Cam starts telling her about all the cred this will gain him at work once the show airs and Bernie thinks that maybe she could get used to it.

Before long she’s pulled away from the table for a whirlwind of congratulations, and then Anna comes to get her for an interview.

“It’s, uh, totally unexpected,” she starts with, standing there with the bake off cake stand in one hand and her bouquet in the other. It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t have a hand free to fidget. “I, well, I haven’t spoken of it much but I started baking after I got hit by an IED in Afghanistan. It was very much part of my physiotherapy.” She clears her throat, can feel her mouth settling into a hard line, she’s never been able to discuss those events with any sort of ease. “I think to be part of something like this, when baking was such a thing of healing for me, well it was very cathartic. And, um, I certainly never thought I’d uh be here,” she lets out a little laugh, “very unexpected to have won. I think, as well, it’s nice to be reminded that you don’t have to have done something forever for it to be good or meaningful. I mean,” she shakes her head, realises that that probably made very little sense, “what I’m trying to say is that it’s not too late to try new things. Look at me, wrong side of fifty, only just started baking, and I won Bake Off!” She grins at the camera, lets the cake stand rest against her shoulder, and feels joy imbue her entire body.

And then, just like that, it’s all over and she’s headed back to Holby with Charlotte beside her and the whole competition behind her.


	15. Back To Normalcy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all your comments on last chapter! I was glad to get people's reactions  
> this chapter is a bit shorter (honestly I don't think it could be longer lol) but fairly important. I'm posting it now (when I really should be asleep) because I have two finals this week and I'm not gonna have time to do this on monday. And really what's a posting schedule for if not to be broken?  
> [Oh, and here's a visual on their instagrams, if anyone wants it.](http://magnass.tumblr.com/post/161183227979/wheat-kings-and-pretty-things-lets-just-see-what)
> 
> huge shout out to Nova for reading this over and snapchatting me all of her reactions so I knew it was okay :)

The best thing, Serena thinks, about being done with Bake Off, is all the free time. She wouldn’t have described her life as remarkably un-hectic before the competition started, but now—and perhaps it’s all relative—she finds herself with quite a lot of free time. Of course, some of that time is eaten up by work commitments she had been putting off. Jayne comes to see her the Monday after the final with a massive stack of paperwork.

“Is this some sort of bribe?” Serena asks. “I tell you who won and you don’t make me do this?”

“Would that it were,” Jayne replies. “Unfortunately these pesky admin duties don’t go away quite so easily.”

When Bernie comes into the office later her eyes widen at the sheer volume of paper on Serena’s desk.

“Can I help?” she asks, reaching out a hand for a nearby folder. Serena immediately swats her hand away.

“No thank you,” she replies. “I can barely trust you to chart properly, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you near any of this.”

“Hey! I’m getting better,” Bernie protests.

“Mmm?” Serena hums, arches her brow and knows it says everything.

“Not my fault your standards are so high,” Bernie grumbles and it’s adorable, really, it is.

“It is not unheard of for a clinical lead to like things done a certain way,” Serena replies primly, but her smile takes the sting out of her words and Bernie’s smiling too.

“Anyway, I was coming to see if you’d like to join me in theatre,” Bernie says, “exploratory laparotomy, possible perf’d bowel, it’ll be a treat.”

“Sounds fun but unfortunately…” she gestures to the mounds of papers in front of her.

“Yeah,” Bernie nods, “I figured.” She pauses for a minute, cocks her head to the side and says, “how’s this? If I can’t help you with this directly why don’t I keep the ward handled so you can devote yourself to getting this all taken care of?”

“That would be… nice. Really nice,” Serena replies. She’s shocked by the gesture, can’t think of the last time she had someone to share the burden of leadership with on the ward.

“Consider it done. I’ll let Lou know to come to me for everything today.” Bernie turns to go, but Serena calls after her before she’s out the door.

“Bernie?”

“Yeah?” Bernie whips around and Serena can’t help but smile at the way those messy curls bounce of her cheeks from the movement.

“Thank you,” she says, does her best to imbue those two words with the full gravity of what she feels, to make Bernie understand how much this truly means to her.

“My pleasure,” Bernie replies with a fleeting smile, and then she’s off.

Serena leans back in her chair and muses on how lovely it is, having Bernie here, on her ward. Serena has always balked at the idea of someone else coming onto her ward, another consultant wanting to mess with how Serena does things, try to pass judgement on her in this space that she considers very much hers. She didn’t want to come down to AAU at first, fought and fought about being moved from Keller, land of organisation and predictability. But over time, she’s come to appreciate AAU. Has found joy and fulfilment where at first she saw nothing but chaos. And she’s clashed with other consultants, in the past, sent down to help out for a short spell and immediately full of ‘helpful suggestions’.

With Bernie it’s different. Then again, she thinks, a lot of things are different with Bernie. She doesn’t feel on edge around her, she feels like Bernie understands Serena’s ward, isn’t constantly trying to prove that Serena’s doing things wrong. In Bernie she has not only a friend, but a colleague and a peer. She’s never before had someone who stands up for her at work like this, always there to share a smile or lend a helping hand. It’s the kind of thing Serena could get used to. She finds herself having to remind herself multiple times a day that Bernie’s placement here is temporary. She knows how Bernie feels about it, too restless to settle down, doubts Bernie would want to be stuck in Holby for the rest of her life no matter how much Serena might want her here.

She sighs and casts her mind back to the work in front of her. She’s got days and days of paperwork to get through and at this rate she’ll be tackling it all week. She sets pen to paper, starting to trawl through the enormous amount of minutiae that comes part and parcel of running a ward, keeps a steady pace all morning, bolstered in large part by the doubleshot latte Bernie drops off a couple of hours later with a silent head shake and a brief smile.

* * *

“Serena’s invited us for dinner on Saturday,” Bernie tells her daughter as soon as she picks up the phone. “Would you be able to make it?”

Charlotte takes a minute to think about what she has on the go before replying that yes she could make it for dinner, and what time, and would Bernie be able to give her a ride.

They sort out the details and when Saturday night rolls around, Bernie drives to Charlotte’s university housing to pick her up before following the familiar roads to Serena’s house.

It’s odd, she thinks as she drives, how natural it feels driving to Serena’s, considering how long they’ve really known each other. The Bake Off final was only a week ago, they’ve only really known each other for what? Two and a half months? And for most of that, Bernie wasn’t even in Holby.

She parks her car on the driveway, leads Charlotte up the path to the front door. Bernie opens the door and walks right in instead of knocking and waiting, something Serena had insisted on when Bernie had started coming over to practice her bakes at her house. She toes off her shoes, kicks them into place like she always does, and leads Charlotte through to the kitchen. There they find Serena, apron on, humming along to the radio. She looks beautiful, Bernie thinks, and she spends a couple of seconds just watching her move about—so natural, so fluid, so at home here more than anywhere else save for perhaps theatre—before she clears her throat to announce their presence. Serena turns immediately, grins wide at the sight of them, and greets both of them in turn with a tight hug.

“Sorry,” she says as she and Charlotte separate, “hope you don’t mind the hug, I know we’ve just barely met, but with how much your mum’s told me about you I feel as though I’ve known you forever.”

“That’s fine,” Charlotte says with a smile. “You give a good hug.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Bernie agrees. She’s glad the evening has started so well, glad that Charlotte seems happy to be here. Charlotte and Serena have met, of course, but more in passing than anything else. This dinner is more… intimate, Bernie supposes, and she’s been worrying a little about it ever since Serena suggested it.

“Can we help with anything?” Bernie asks, looking around, but Serena brushes off the offer, urges them through to the sitting room to enjoy a glass of wine, and joins them after a few minutes as everything’s ‘finishing up in the oven’ and doesn’t need her supervision. Jason and Elinor both come down to join them, and Bernie’s happy to sit back and relax, glass of shiraz in hand, and watch the conversation move on around her.

They flit from topic to topic, and Serena is obviously used to Elinor and Jason covering a breadth of issues in what seems to be a single breath. She’s glad that Charlotte fits in just as seamlessly, adding into the conversation without any apparent hardship, and the hubbub is broken up only by Serena announcing that the food is ready.

The table is quickly set by Elinor, Jason, and Bernie (who despite Serena’s protestations refuses to just sit down when she knows perfectly well where the good plates are and which napkins they should use), and then they all sit down to dinner. It’s amazing, really, Serena has truly outdone herself. Rack of lamb, potato gratin, ratatouille, all flawlessly presented on beautiful platters and bowls. And it tastes as good as—no, better than—it looks. They eat heartily, talking about the work Bernie and Serena have been doing on the ward, and sharing the stories of their time in the Bake Off tent that the kids haven’t heard yet.

“So, Charlotte,” Serena says at a lull in conversation, “your mum mentioned you graduated but you’re continuing on at uni in the fall?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Charlotte says with a nod, “I’m going to be starting a PhD in bioethics.”

“Didn’t want to follow in the family footsteps?” Serena asks, smiling.

“I figured three doctors were enough for one family,” Charlotte replies with an easy laugh. “But I guess I couldn’t stray too far away.”

“Well I know your mum is very proud,” Serena says. She pauses for a breath and Bernie can hear the slight stress in her tone when she continues, “as proud of you as I am of Ellie.”

Bernie watches Elinor look up in surprise, like she wasn’t expecting to hear that at all, sees the startled smile on her face, knows how hard Serena is trying to make her believe that. Elinor doesn’t acknowledge it and Serena’s not looking at her, is instead looking at Bernie, and Bernie gives her a little smile, does her best to make it look encouraging.

“Charlotte does photography,” Jason says in the silence that follows and Bernie silently blesses him for the much needed break in topic.

“Really?” Serena turns back towards her with interest.

“Yeah, um, just a little,” Charlotte says. Bernie’s seen the photos, knows she’s being modest. “I really like doing candid life shots, I hope you don’t mind if I take some of you?”

“Be my guest,” Serena says, then grins, “just try not to get me looking completely horrible.”

Bernie thinks that won’t be hard for Charlotte to accomplish, Serena has never once looked horrible in the entire time she’s known her. They keep talking about photography; apparently Elinor took a course while she was in college and Serena’s quite knowledgeable on the subject as well. Jason, unsurprisingly, has watched a documentary about some famous photographer or another and they all get onto some debate about angle and composition and who makes the best lenses or whatever. Bernie has nothing to add to it but she doesn’t mind at all. At one point Serena catches her eye across the table, Bernie just shrugs, gives a little roll of her eyes and Serena smiles warmly, knows that Bernie’s just as happy to be on the outskirts of the conversation. Bernie smiles back, of course, and they hold each other’s gaze until they’re disrupted by Elinor and Jason standing to clear the table.

“I should grab dessert,” Serena says, making to rise from her seat.

“Please, Serena,” Bernie says, gets up before Serena can and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her in her seat, “allow me.”

“But you’re the guest,” Serena protests.

“Please! I’m hardly a guest at this point, am I?” Bernie rebuts.

“Well, maybe not,” Serena says, covers Bernie’s hand with her own and gives it a quick squeeze. “Thank you.”

Bernie heads into the kitchen, locates the gorgeous pie that Serena obviously baked for tonight, grabs it and a stack of plates, a handful of utensils, and—just for safe measure—she tucks a bottle of shiraz under her arm.

After the pie is done and Jason’s cleared the table of those dishes, he heads to the sitting room to watch his shows and Charlotte and Elinor head off to Elinor’s room to do whatever it is that girls of that age do when hanging out together. Bernie’s honestly just grateful to see them getting along. How fun it would be if their daughters became as close as she and Serena are, she thinks, how lovely it would be for her and Serena to hang out with Lottie and Cam and Ellie and Jason all in a big happy group.

With the kids—and that’s how Bernie thinks of them now, all of them—off doing their own thing, Bernie and Serena retire to the garden, sit down on Serena’s porch swing and get to work on the bottle of shiraz Bernie had grabbed, talking in low voices about work, their plans for the weekend, and anything else that comes to mind. The summer sun stretches long into the evening, and Bernie isn’t aware of the passage of time until she hears a click, looks up to see Charlotte standing above them with her camera. She shrugs at them, gives a sort of apologetic smile and Bernie knows she got that look from her.

“It’s late,” Bernie says, standing up and reaching a hand out to Serena before turning to her daughter. “I should probably be getting you home shouldn’t I?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Charlotte says, “we don’t have to go if you’re not ready.”

“No, no, I think we’ve infringed on Serena’s hospitality enough for one night.”

“Infringed?” Serena says, “nothing of the sort.” She walks them to the front door, hugs them both in farewell and Bernie wraps her arms around her tightly, loves the feeling of Serena’s cheek against hers even if it’s just for a moment. Bernie’s not in any way a hugger, never has been, but hugs from Serena are different. Hugs from Serena feel comfortable in a way that hugs have never been.

Bernie drives Charlotte home, pulls into the driveway of her building, and waits for Charlotte to open the door, give a quick goodbye, just like she always does. But Charlotte doesn’t move.

“Mum?” Charlotte says after a moment of silence has stretched long and still between them. Her voice is uncharacteristically uncertain and Bernie wonders what she could possibly be about to say.

“Yes Lottie?” Bernie says, fights to keep her voice steady.

“Did the producers of Bake Off know about you and Serena?” the question is quiet, timid even, and Bernie’s completely confused by it, by the tone more than anything.

“Well, yes,” she says, continues in a teasing tone. “They knew about every contestant, I’ve heard that’s fairly common for a television show.”

“No, mum,” Charlotte shakes her head, “I mean did they  _know_?”

“Know… Sorry, Lottie, I’m not following.”

“That you two are, you know, together, dating, whatever you’re calling it,” Charlotte says, plain as day. As though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“What?” Bernie’s voice is barely more than a whisper. Her and Serena  _together_? What in the world could’ve made her daughter think that?

“Yeah, I mean, you’re not exactly trying to hide it are you?”

“Charlotte, Serena and I are just friends,” Bernie stresses the last words. Needs to make it clear to her here and now how things are, before she says anything to Elinor or—god help her—Serena.

“I saw the way you look at her, Mum,” Charlotte presses on, “you can’t tell me that there’s nothing more there.”

“The way I? No, no, like I said, she’s a friend, a colleague,” Bernie doesn’t know how she can make Charlotte understand this, understand how completely outlandish this suggestion is.

“You walked into her home like you belonged there,” Charlotte says, like that means something.

“I’ve been over there a lot!”

“I found you sitting together on that porch swing, she was practically in your lap!”

“It’s not a crime to sit close to someone.”

“Yeah but. The way you act around her, mum, it’s obvious!”

“I don’t—we’re good friends, best friends, even, Lottie. Nothing more.” Bernie’s tone borders on pleading, she needs Charlotte to understand this, to let this be.

“Okay,” Charlotte says finally, drags out the word in a way that says to Bernie that she doesn’t believe her in the slightest, and Bernie has to be content with the fact that she is at least leaving it at that, for now. She says goodbye to her, clasps her on the shoulder awkwardly and wishes she were enough like Serena to give her daughter a hug.

When Bernie gets home she pours herself two fingers of whiskey, sits on the sofa and runs her conversation with Charlotte over in her mind. She and Serena? Together? Like that? Obviously Serena is gorgeous, Bernie’s known that since day one. And she’ll admit to herself that she could easily be attracted to her. Has been attracted to her even, even if she hadn’t acknowledged it as such. But her having feelings for Serena? She takes a breath, sips her whiskey, and does something she tries not to do too often: confronts her own emotions.

Having gone to therapy, Bernie has, by this point, learned the tools for examining her feelings, she just doesn’t choose to exercise them very often. It’s not pleasant, generally, and she’s usually happy to go through life just boxing up the things she doesn’t want to think about, setting them aside for later. Now, however she does her best to think of Serena, think of how she feels when she’s around Serena, the glow she would feel when bringing Serena her morning coffee during the competition, the warm cocoon that would form sitting close getting drunk on shiraz and how she never wanted to leave. She thinks of the way her stomach flips when Serena smiles at her, how much she wanted to make her proud, how amazing it felt to hold her hand that time on the way to the park in Bath, that time on the Palladian bridge. She thinks of the feeling of Serena’s thumb clearing a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth, thinks of every moment they spent together, and truly, honestly considers how she felt in each of those instances. Suddenly, all of those feelings that she had previously attributed to goodwill and friendship hit her square in the chest and she feels breathless from the force of them.

“Oh god,” Bernie says aloud, leaning forward and dropping her head into her hands. “I’m in love with my best friend.”

Bernie doesn’t know, immediately, quite how to deal with her revelation. When she gets to work on Monday, she avoids Serena as much as possible, jumps at the offer to work on Keller for a few days—they’re short a few doctors and need the extra hand. Everything is different now. Everything. And yet… She realises the morning of her first day back on AAU that it’s very much the same. She still feels the same when she works with Serena, still feels her presence as a steady warmth at her side. Her stomach still flips when Serena smiles at her, she still feels that desire to be close to her, to spend time with her. Except now, now there’s an added dimension, a yearning need that Bernie had felt, if not forever then for a very long time, dwelling in the back of her mind, unconfronted, unacknowledged. She wonders how she ever ignored it, this steady pressure, like a river of want and need that threatens to swamp her body at a moment’s notice.

Now when Serena stands so close that Bernie gets a whiff of her shampoo—never perfume, not here on the ward—Bernie’s heart flutters in her chest. When Serena smiles at her over the edge of her mask in theatre she thinks, plainly, ‘oh, I love her’. Wonders how she could’ve ever thought anything else. Every moment near Serena now is coloured by this new discovery, this understanding she never wanted that she now cannot shake loose.

And with these feelings comes the guilt. That her desires are prurient, that she is taking advantage of Serena’s unknowing goodwill. She spends all of her time on Keller worrying that Serena will find out. That as soon as Bernie works with her again it will be obvious. And then Serena will feel that Bernie’s interest has been predatory, that her intentions have been so much less than pure. And Serena surely will not want to be friends with her then. Or, at least, even if she does, this particular closeness they share will be gone forever.

So, when halfway through that first day back on AAU Serena asks to speak with her privately, Bernie’s heart thuds in her chest and her fingers tremble.

“The roof?” Serena suggests and Bernie nods dumbly. Tries not to fidget during the ride up in the lift. Concentrates on making it up the stairs one footstep at a time. Serena stays quiet, too, until they’re up there under the bright blue sky, the wind whipping at their hair. “There are stories about this roof,” Serena says, running her fingers against the corrugated steel beside the door.

“Addicts come up here to die?” Bernie offers with a grimace.

“Hmph,” Serena snorts, “elephants graveyard.”

Bernie nods, takes a seat on the metal stairs when Serena gestures, waits for Serena to take a seat as well. They sit in silence, Bernie opens her mouth once, to say something, to invite whatever it is Serena wants to say to her, but she thinks the better of it—she’d like to stave off the dissolution of their friendship for as long as humanly possible.

“You ran off to Keller before I really had a chance to see you this week,” Serena says quietly. “And I texted you about Albie’s, twice, and you never came. Are we… I mean… Bernie I don’t want things to be odd between us. Is this about Bake Off still? Is this about my feelings? About you winning?”

“No!” Bernie exclaims, as internally she breathes a massive sigh of relief. ”No! Serena, it’s not. I just went to Keller to help out, nothing more.”

“Good. Because I really am fine with it.”

“I know, you’ve said.”

“And I’m not just saying it. I really mean it.” Serena says it so earnestly that Bernie has to believe it, but still.

“You could’ve won it,” she offers in a low voice. She still feels hung up on this point: how did she, Bernie, win when Serena was there?

“Of course I could have,” Serena says, playful grin wide on her face. Bernie thinks about how much she loves when she looks like this, eyes filled with mirth, and forces herself to pay attention. She needs to stop getting distracted by just how beautiful Serena is. “But I’m already your superior at work,” Serena continues, “and in looks—or the ability to brush my hair, at least—and in taste in wine so, you know, I had to let you have one thing over me.” She nudges Bernie as she says it, laughs, and Bernie has to laugh with her. If Serena can joke about it, then, well, then Bernie feels a bit more secure in the knowledge that she really doesn’t mind.

“As long as you’re sure,” she says, squints up into the bright blue sky.

“I am,” Serena says. “And anyway I think I got the best prize in the end.” She puts a hand on Bernie’s knee, waits until Bernie’s looking at her to quip, “somebody I don’t loathe to run my trauma bay.”

Bernie laughs loudly at that, but still the essence of what Serena really meant is there, between them, and Bernie knows that if Serena really feels that way, that earnestly about her, about their friendship, then Bernie can never, ever, let her own personal feelings ruin it.

Back on the ward after their conversation, the tension between them is gone and Bernie is able to concentrate on just how much she loves working with Serena, being around Serena. She realises at one point, when she’s spent more time sneaking glances of Serena across their desks than working, that she’s probably going to have to figure out a time to do paperwork when Serena isn’t also in the office or she’ll never get anything done.

Serena doesn’t seem to notice the shift, thank god, and Bernie does her best to quell her mind’s thoughts when they’re together. To at least act like nothing’s changed.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Serena asks, and Bernie is pulled from her reverie back to the busy hum of Albie’s on a Friday evening.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, Raf’s invited Jac and I down for dinner. A finalist’s meal, he said, did I not mention it?”

“No. You didn't. But I haven't seen much of you this week.” Serena’s tone isn’t reproachful, just matter of fact, but Bernie’s face still screws up into a frown.

“Sorry.” she says

“It’s fine. I’m glad you were able to help out. I did miss you though.”

“I missed you too,” Bernie admits, fights the sharp intake of air as Serena brushes her fingers against the hand Bernie has resting on the table.

She drives down to London Saturday morning, takes Cam out for lunch and then stops by her apartment. It’s much the same as it’s always been. She packs a small box with some clothes she left behind, adds in a couple of books too, and a few journals, puts it in the boot of her little car, and waits. She doesn’t really have anything to do for a few hours and she doesn’t know what to do with her time. She feels... odd. She looks around her little flat and realises that for the first time, when returning to this place, home base ever since the divorce, she hasn’t felt like she’s coming home.

She goes for a walk, doesn’t wanna be stuck in the stuffy little flat, doesn’t want to face the fact that her concept of home seems to have shifted, somehow, without her knowledge. She wonders what home is, now, and unbidden warm brown eyes and the heady taste of shiraz flit through her mind. She shakes her mind to clear that thought. She’s being ridiculous.

She gets to Raf’s house five minutes past six. Wonders how she managed to be late even when she had nothing else to do. He opens the door to a brightly lit foyer, and Bernie follows him through to a large open kitchen and sitting room. It’s filled with the sound of children’s laughter and Bernie looks around to see Jac seated on a sofa with four children running amok in the empty space in front of her. Fletch is seated on an armchair nearby, he stands up as they come near, offers Bernie a drink, grabs her a beer upon request, and she takes a seat beside Jac as Raf goes back into the kitchen.

“So you’re still making Raf do all the work in the kitchen?” Jac asks Fletch after greeting Bernie. He laughs.

“Well, I do offer to help but he doesn’t let me in there to do anything but the dishes,” he shrugs, good natured, as Bernie and Jac laugh. They’ve both heard the stories of some of Fletch’s more disastrous kitchen adventures.

It’s lovely, Bernie decides, the Di Lucca-Fletch residence. Filled with warmth and love. The kids are as rambunctious as any children Bernie’s known, but they sit pleasantly enough through dinner. She thinks her own were rarely that well-mannered.

“So are you and Serena still working together?” Raf asks.

“Yes. Until the fall at the least,” Bernie replies. “Setting up a proper trauma bay takes time.”

“Still loving it?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Bernie says immediately. “Serena's wonderful. It’s really rare to see a department like AAU run as orderly as hers, and Serena just does an incredible job of it. Plus, she’s an amazing surgeon, really really talented, it’s a joy just to be in theatre with her—” she stops suddenly, as she realises she’s been gushing, tries to fight down the blush that threatens to colour her cheeks.

“I want to be a surgeon when I grow up,” Evie says, breaking through the awkward silence and Bernie wonders briefly if it would be considered bad form to give her a fiver in thanks. “Are you any good?”

“One of the best,” Bernie replies simply. Because she is. Evie pulls a face at that response, looks unsure.

“Isn't that arrogant?” she asks and Bernie sees Raf opens his mouth to jump in. She gives him a minute shake of her head and turns back to Evie.

“No it's not. Knowing how good you are and admitting it isn't arrogance, it's confidence. Thinking no one’s better than you or that you can't possibly be wrong, that’s arrogance.” She pauses for a moment, decides to keep going. “Evie, when you go through to med school and then onto practicing as a surgeon people are going to want you to minimize yourself, to act like you're not as good because you're a woman. You need to be able to stand up and proudly say ‘actually I am that good’, okay?”

“Amen,” Jac murmurs.

“Okay,” Evie takes a moment before she speaks up again, head cocked to one side. “You said ‘when’ I go to med school, not if.”

“Of course,” Bernie replies, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You want to, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re willing to work hard to get there?”

“Yup.”

“Then you’ll do it.”

Evie takes a moment before posing one final question.

“What's the grossest surgery you've ever done?”

“Evie!” Raf scolds, “not at the dinner table!” Evie ducks her head but Bernie gives her a slow wink, mouths ‘later’ and Evie grins wide.

The meal is incredible, of course, right through to dessert, and much of the talk is taken up by reminiscing about their time in the Bake Off tent.

“What do you think you’ll do after the results are released?” Raf asks at one point. “I’ve been looking at other contestants in past years and they have cookbooks out, a lot of them aren’t at the same jobs, I mean, people recognise them just walking down the street to work.”

“It’ll be a change for sure,” Jac says. “It would be nice to release a cookbook, I think. I certainly have a lot of recipes I’d like to share.”

“It’s a thought,” Raf agrees, “I can’t see myself leaving my job though.”

“Not after what we’ve all been through to get where we are,” Bernie. “God, the cost of school alone,” she shudders. “A cookbook’s an idea, though.”

“Collaborate,” Fletch offers with a grin. “The Gay British Bake Off official cookbook.”

“Rainbow recipes for every page,” Raf agrees with a laugh.

“They might cut it,” Bernie says, “the part with Jac telling Sue about how we were the first gay finale.”

“I’ve thought that,” Jac agrees.

“No!” Raf seems completely taken aback. “You don’t think they would, do you? They’ve never hidden contestant’s sexualities in the past.”

“No,” Jac agrees. “But they haven’t made a big deal about it either. Hard to say how all the little old grannies would take it.”

Conversation continues on with all three of them offering up opinions about what, exactly, will be cut from the show and what moments will be kept. When they eventually retire from the table to the sitting room, Bernie is momentarily pulled away by an insistent Evie who wants to know everything about Bernie’s job and just how much surgery she’s done and how many lives she’s saved, and would she like to see Evie’s anatomy colouring book and did she know that Evie knows every single bone in the hand. Bernie smiles, indulges every question with what she hopes is appropriate answers considering Evie’s age. She’s obviously bright and very invested and Bernie meant what she said earlier: if she’s willing to work hard Bernie has no question in her mind that she’ll attain her goals.

She does vow, though, in that moment to do whatever she can to help Evie out. She thinks, as well, that Evie and Serena should get to know each other, that Serena would be a very good influence on Evie, that she’d enjoy mentoring her. That Serena would be a better mentor than Bernie—that Serena’s experiences as a surgeon have not been marred by death and war. When Evie asked her how many lives she’s saved the question took Bernie by surprise. She doesn’t usually keep track of the ones she’s saved, it’s the people she’s lost, that’s the count she’ll never forget.

She gets back to her flat late that night, flops down on the mattress, exhausted. Still, it takes her a long time to fall asleep, she can’t seem to get comfortable no matter which way she turns. How is it possible, she wonders, that she sleeps better in Holby, on the lumpy old mattress she bought second-hand, than here on this expensive thing all perfectly picked out for her sleeping type or whatever the salesperson had said.

The next morning Bernie’s just slammed the boot of her car closed when she feels her phone buzz. It’s a text from Serena.

‘When are you coming home?’ It reads, and Bernie’s heart stutters a bit at Serena’s cavalier use of that word, something Bernie’s been trying not to think of all weekend.

‘Right now,’ she texts back and within seconds she gets a response.

‘Come over.’

‘When?’

‘Whenever you get here.’ And then, ‘I’ll feed you. And we can finally get you set up with twitter and all that.’

‘Ok.’ Bernie replies, wonders if she should tell Serena that she didn’t need any of that convincing.

She makes good time to Holby, gets to Serena’s house in the early afternoon and when she’s greeted with a strong hug she hugs her back just as hard, decidedly doesn’t approach the thought of how much she missed Serena though she was only really gone a day.

She and Serena get set up at the kitchen table with Serena’s laptop and Bernie’s admittedly surprised when not only Jason but Elinor joins them. They start with twitter, start with a username and Bernie doesn’t have any clue what to use. Elinor, on her phone and not looking, informs her dryly that using her actual name is decidedly uncool so Bernie tries to think of something else.

“Major Wolfe?” she offers, gets an almost pleased nod from Elinor and Jason both. @majorwolfe, it turns out, is taken, but @mjrwolfe isn’t and they all agree they can live with that. “What’s yours?” she asks Serena.

“Serenacampbell,” Serena replies, “all one word. I didn’t know how gauche a move that apparently is.”

“She didn’t ask for my input,” Elinor says with a little shrug and Bernie just laughs.

With a name she’s told she needs a description and Bernie considers maybe just not trying this whole social media thing after all.

“Really?” she asks the three of them plaintively, “do I have to?”

“People have to know who you are,” Jason tells her very seriously and Bernie sighs.

They decide, finally, on just her name, her profession, and the fact that she likes baking. She’ll add in that she was on Bake Off after their names are all released. She gets her first follower, Serena, and follows her first twitter account, also Serena. Gets her first tweet, from Serena, ‘@mjrwolfe welcome to twitter’ with a whole load of little emojis after it. She gets a brief run-down of the idea of the whole system and thinks 140 characters isn’t much space to do anything in.

“But what’s the point?” she asks them, because it doesn’t really make that much sense to her. Why give yourself such a short space to work in? Why not use something else that lets you at least post a full thought at a time. “I can’t see myself deciding to hop on twitter and inform the world that I’ve just eaten a sandwich for lunch.”

That question brings up a cacophony of responses that range from Jason’s very detailed explanation of the birth of twitter and its major uses, to Serena telling her how fun it is, to Elinor’s succinct ‘it just is, there isn’t a point’. Eventually they get onto the subject of tv shows and live tweeting and Bernie understands that that is what’s most important, at least for her. In this day and age with something like Bake Off people will be tweeting about her and at her and it will be a way to interact with whatever hypothetical fans she might accrue. Bernie quietly thinks that she’s not going to have many of those, if any, but she somewhat understands why she’s doing this now.

Instagram is a lot more straightforward, Bernie thinks. You post photos and other people can see the photos. She gets admittedly very confused when Elinor does her best to explain filters and when she should and shouldn’t use them and why she should never ever tag anything #nofilter because Elinor will die of embarrassment and seriously, no one does that anymore. She uses the same description as she used for twitter, though this time the username ‘majorwolfe’ is unclaimed so she goes with that. Her icon is another lively debate only solved when Serena makes a suggestion.

“What about that photo I took of you in the lobby in Bath?” she says and Bernie can’t think of what she means. “Oh come now, you were reading the paper and when you realised I was taking a photo of you you used it to cover your entire face. Here!” she announces, having found the photo in question and shows it to Bernie. It passes muster with Jason and Elinor as well, and Bernie’s just happy to be done. She writes a quick email to Anna, with the information about her newly created social media accounts. Apparently, when their names are released at the end of the summer their twitters and instagrams will be released with them.

Again Serena follows her immediately and Bernie takes a moment to scroll through her instagram, to take a look at the photos she’s posted. There’s one of Jason and Elinor, many of Serena’s various cooking and baking exploits, and one that Bernie thinks must be Serena and her mum, both in aprons, Serena just a young girl.

“Without bread and wine love goes hungry,” she reads out from Serena’s description.

“It’s mum’s like, favourite quote,” Elinor says.

“I like it,” Bernie says, smiling at Serena. “It’s very… you,” she finishes lamely, because it is. Serena laughs.

“At the very least without them I go hungry,” she replies dryly, reaches over to close the laptop. “C’mon I need to get a start on dinner.”

Bernie follows Serena into the kitchen, grabs an apron from the hook near the doorway. It’s shepherd’s pie night in the Campbell household and Serena puts Bernie to work dicing up vegetables, flicks her arse with a towel as she walks past and Bernie feels the laugh bubble up from deep inside her, does nothing to stop it. It’s loud and explosive and it sets Serena to laughing as well, just as it always does. Doubled over in laughter in Serena’s kitchen Bernie feels warm and happy, and unbidden the thought rises in her mind again, of home.


	16. A Family Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say that despite the views expressed in this chapter I am a staunch supporter of pineapple on pizza.  
> The recipes featured in this chapter are battenberg cakes, because that was going to be a challenge one week before I scrapped it for something else, and Tartine bread which I just made for the first time and which I highly recommend if you have an entire day that you want to devote to making it. (Seriously, though, it is amazingly good).
> 
> Huge thanks to Nova and Beth for talking me off the ledge with this chapter, I kind of vacillated over keeping part of it and they managed to get me through it so yay for them! And shoutout to Sarah who actually cross-stitched the piece that's mentioned in this chapter and it's beautiful and I wanna cry. The quote, by the way, is by Daria M. and the link I have to it on tumblr is kaput so I don't know anything beyond that.

“Are you coming over tomorrow?” Serena asks as she comes to stand beside Bernie at the nurse’s desk.

“I don’t know,” Bernie replies, turning to look at her. “Am I?”

“I’d like you to, yes.”

“Okay then,” Bernie says immediately.

“I was thinking we should bake,” Serena says, nonchalant, flipping through the chart in front of her.

“Really?” Bernie asks, “not all baked out?”

“Oh please! Bake Off was weeks ago.”

“Three weeks Sunday, that’s not that long.”

“Long enough.”

“Whatever you say,” Bernie agrees with a little laugh. “Shall I come by in the morning then? I can bring coffee if you’d like, and pastry.”

“Sounds marvellous. Let’s say late morning, though, you may enjoy waking at the crack of dawn but those of us who didn’t spend two decades in the army need our beauty sleep.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bernie replies solemnly, her eyes twinkling.

Serena laughs, taps the chart against Bernie’s shoulder in admonition as she walks away.

“I was thinking battenbergs,” Serena says when they’re both in the office later in the day.

“Hmm?” Bernie looks up from her computer and meets Serena’s eyes.

“Tomorrow. Battenbergs would be fun don’t you think?”

“Battenbergs plural?”

“Why not? You make one, I make one, we can have our own mini Bake Off.”

“Sure,” Bernie agrees. “Sounds good.”

“And bread of course, I need to make bread.” When does she not need to make bread? Jason and Elinor bear a striking resemblance to carb-loving locusts most of the time.

“Of course,” Bernie nods. “Whatever you say.” Her tone is playful and Serena sticks her tongue out at her in return.

The day drags on with very little of interest. They do a couple surgeries each, nothing really exciting, and both manage to make it out of the hospital on time, which is nice for a Friday. Serena twists Bernie’s arm to go to Albie’s for a quick drink, which turns into two, and then almost three except they have to call it quits because Serena really does need to get home to make dinner and Bernie surely has things to do of her own. Serena wonders a little at the sort of twinge she feels as she and Bernie part ways that night. Not the first time she’s felt it, not at all, but she dwells on it more today than she has in the past. It’s so strange how she hates to leave Bernie, to be parted from her. They spent the whole day together, the whole week really, and she’ll be seeing her again in the morning. Why in the world would she feel so bereft to be without her presence for what amounts to just a few hours?

The next morning dawns beautiful, sunny and warm. Serena wakes to a text from Bernie telling her that she’ll be on her way soon, which propels her up, out of bed and into the shower. She’s happy to don casual clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, leave her face free of makeup, and any time she spends in front of the mirror inspecting the outfit from all sides she can easily chalk up to a general desire to look nice and nothing else.

She’s seated at the kitchen table, doing her best to get as much of the Saturday paper’s crossword done as possible—it’s rare for her to get first crack at it, with Jason in the house it’s usually finished before she can get to it—when Bernie comes in. Serena loves that she lets herself in now, loves that Bernie comes in and makes herself at home in Serena’s house. She’s got a little tray of coffees, two bags of pastry, and Serena just raises an eyebrow when she sees the name on the bag. Elite might truly have the best pastries in town, but they’re nowhere near on the way from Bernie’s flat to here. She’s touched that Bernie cared enough to go out of her way.

“Thank you,” she says as she takes the proffered coffee and pastry.

“You’re very welcome,” Bernie replies with one of those fleeting little smiles.

They sit down at the table to eat and Bernie immediately starts looking over the crossword, picking up Serena’s pencil to begin adding something in.

“Hey!” Serena admonishes. “I was doing just fine, thank you very much!”

“Were you?” Bernie asks and Serena snatches the crossword away with a shake of her head.

“I was, yes. I never get a chance to do the crossword before someone else and I was savouring it.”

“Okay,” Bernie shrugs, grins. Serena just shakes her head. “Where are Jason and Elinor this morning?” Bernie asks then. “Still abed?”

“Heavens no. Not in my house. If they want to sleep in past nine they can get a place of their own, not that it’s a problem with Jason,” she takes a sip of her latte before she continues. “Elinor’s at work this morning, her schedule got rearranged again so she’s working weekends but has a couple of days off mid-week. Jason has decided, with a nudge from Alan, that he should broaden his horizons, do something with his days, you know. So they’ve gone to help out at a soup kitchen today.”

“That’s wonderful!” Bernie says, “you must be proud?” She looks at Serena for a few moments, “or not?”

“Oof,” Serena lets out an explosive breath, “I’m not too sure how I feel, really. I’m worried more than anything else. He’s so delicate, Bernie, and most people really don’t understand his limitations. He’s been talking about wanting to get a job and I…” she trails off. She doesn’t really know how to explain all of her worries to Bernie. She knows Jason, of course, but it’s different, not having lived with him.

“And you don’t think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m, well,” she pauses, tries a bit of the pastry, “good lord this pastry’s good! I wouldn’t say I think it’s a bad idea, necessarily, I just don’t know if it’s the right thing for him.”

“Well, it has to happen eventually,” Bernie says with a little shrug.

“Does it?”

“Serena,” Bernie’s hand hovers in the air for a few moments before coming to rest on Serena’s shoulder, a light, reassuring touch, “you can’t keep him in a little bubble forever. He’s a grown man, you need to let him go out into the world or whatever.”

“I know, I know. But, Bernie, what if he’s not ready?”

“He won’t be,” Bernie says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh that’s reassuring, thank you,” Serena snarks right back.

“No, I mean, nobody’s ever ready for anything, not really. You just have to go out and do it.”

“That’s… Unexpectedly astute of you,” Serena says.

“Thanks,” Bernie replies. She squeezes Serena’s shoulder once more, then lets her hand drop back down to her side.

They finish their food, and move into the kitchen right away. The bread Serena’s making today is Tartine Country Bread. It’s one of her favourites, the recipe coming from a bakery in San Francisco, and it produces a delightfully tangy loaf with an open crumb and a dark, chewy crust. She started it the night before, making a leaven of water, flour (both white and whole wheat), and a bit of starter. It’s been sitting on her counter overnight and when she pulls off the towel covering it she’s happy to see it’s gotten nice and bubbly over time.

Bernie’s never made this particular loaf before and Serena’s more than happy to show her how it’s done, mixing 200 grams of the leaven with 700 grams water, and then adding in 900 grams white flour and 100 grams whole wheat flour. She mixes it until it’s combined, then sets it aside to rest for about forty minutes.

“I have seen it said,” she tells Bernie as she cleans her hands, “that Tartine Bread isn’t a recipe so much as a way of life. Still, I think all the work’s worth it.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Bernie says with a shrug.

They move on to the battenbergs next, and Serena has to laugh at Bernie’s recipe. As per her usual, it’s less of a recipe and more of a couple of notations of quantities, times, and ratios, this time scrawled on a piece of paper from a prescription pad.

“I’m going to come over and fix all your recipes one of these days,” Serena warns her.

“They’re fine, Serena,” Bernie protests. “Perfectly usable just as they are.”

Serena just snorts.

Her battenberg is coffee and cream flavoured, with one coffee sponge and one vanilla sponge. She uses her stand mixer to start beating the butter and sugar, Bernie is apparently more than happy to make hers by hand.

“What flavour’s yours?” she asks, peering into Bernie’s bowl.

“Raspberry ripple,” Bernie replies. “One of the sponges will be pink, the other one is a vanilla sponge but you plop a load of raspberry purée in there and mix it all around so it marbles.”

It sounds delicious, tastes good too Serena finds when she manages to get her finger into Bernie’s bowl for a quick taste.

The bread gets looked after every half hour, as they go. First to knead in salt and more water, then to be folded. Every thirty minutes for three and a half hours the four corners of the loaf have to be stretched out and then folded over into the centre. It’s time consuming in the way that it means that you can’t just plop it down and walk away like you can with most breads. Still the folds only take a minute, so it’s well suited to a day when she’ll be in the kitchen doing other things.

Serena turns the radio on to a local station that plays a variety of songs, both old and new, and the music crackles through the air from her ancient little kitchen radio. It’s all so horribly domestic, she thinks, as she and Bernie fill tins with their mixes and get them into the oven. Except it’s not horrible at all, it’s lovely. Really lovely. She’s never felt this close to anyone, well, ever. Even with Edward, in the heady early days of their relationship, she needed breaks, needed time away from him. With Bernie, she finds she never wants to be apart from her.

She wonders, then, as she and Bernie start to roll out their marzipan, what it would be like if Bernie were a man. She can’t imagine being this close to a man and not dating him. Still, though, she reminds herself that if Bernie were a man they would never have gotten this close, it’s because Bernie’s a woman that they’ve been able to become friends like this—unfettered by romantic allusions. So she labels her thoughts as silly musings and definitely doesn’t think about how she’s always loved a man in uniform.

The bread’s coming along well and the sponges are out of the oven when the radio switches over to a tune that Serena absolutely adores.

“Three little birds sat on my window,” she starts to sing along, swaying to the beat. Bernie’s turned to look at her and Serena reaches out, grabs Bernie’s hands and pulls her into the centre of the kitchen. “C’mon Bernie,” she says, “dance with me!”

Bernie looks unsure but she gamely goes along, putting one hand on Serena’s waist and pulling her close. Serena wonders if she should be surprised that Bernie’s such a good dancer. She moves fluidly, leads Serena with confidence, and Serena’s just happy to follow along, stepping in time with the music, singing along and laughing with delight. Bernie looks happy, too, and Serena hears her humming along to the tune, a smile just barely turning up the corners of her mouth. She lifts her hand up high, spinning Serena around and out, then leading Serena to twirl in towards her, Bernie’s arm wrapping around her as she goes. There’s a second, one little moment where Serena’s held tight in Bernie’s embrace and Serena could swear she hears Bernie’s breath hitch, but then she’s being twirled away again and the moment is over and in a few seconds the song is over too.

The cakes turn out perfect, and Serena honestly can’t say which she prefers so she happily eats a slice of each. Bernie eats one slice of her own cake and two of Serena’s, praising it highly. They wash it all down with mug after mug of tea and Serena thinks she hasn’t had this much fun in a day in a very long time. Bake Off was too stressful to be purely enjoyment, but this? This, Serena thinks, is perfection.

“Occam,” Bernie says, apparently unable to keep herself from reading the crossword over Serena’s shoulder. Serena pretends to scowl at her but is, in reality, happy to have the answer—she’d never have gotten it on her own. She pencils it in and it proves the clue to figuring out her last few words. She fills in all the squares and sets the crossword aside with a smile.

“Thank you,” she says grudgingly.

“Any time,” Bernie says sweetly.

The bread is resting now in flour coated bannetons, will need to be baked in a few hours, and so Serena and Bernie move on to discussing what to have for dinner. Jason is staying with Alan tonight, won’t be back until Monday.

“What about Elinor?” Bernie asks, “will she be eating with us?”

“Hard to say,” Serena replies, “she should be home in time for it though, whether she deigns to grace us with her presence is another matter entirely.”

Bernie laughs at that, Serena likes that Bernie understands what Serena means when she says things like that about her often troublesome daughter, that Bernie doesn’t judge her by it.

“Pizza?” Bernie offers.

“You want to order in?” Serena asks. Surely not, with them both here and fully capable of cooking.

“Of course not,” Bernie says, “do you never make pizza from scratch?”

“Never,” Serena admits, “in this house pizza is solely eaten when I leave money for Ellie and Jason because I won’t be home to cook.”

“Serena!” Bernie gasps. “You’re so missing out!” Serena shrugs at that but Bernie won’t let it go, drags Serena into the kitchen and starts on things immediately. Serena’s got tomatoes from her garden on the counter—one of the few plants she managed to grow this year what with the Bake Off insanity—and Bernie gets to work immediately, roasting them in a blistering hot oven with some garlic and olive oil until they’re charred at the edges. Then they get processed in a food processor until smooth, and then cooked down in a saucepan over a low heat. Next they make the dough and Serena wonders at how many times Bernie’s made this that she knows the recipe completely by heart. When she asks her about it, Bernie just shrugs.

“Cam and Lottie really like it,” she says like it’s nothing and Serena wonders how she doesn’t see what a good mum she is.

The dough is simple enough, flour, yeast, water, salt, and sugar, is kneaded just like bread dough, and then set to proof. Serena puts her medium-sized Le Creuset dutch oven in the oven, at 260 degrees, sets it to heat up—the Tartine Bread will get baked in the dutch oven when it’s ready.

They use the break while the doughs rise to start on toppings, shredding cheese and cutting up some sausage Serena was able to find in her fridge. Bernie suggests pineapple, much to Serena’s horror, they manage to compromise on olives and bell peppers instead.

They wait to make the pizzas until after the Tartine bread is baked, find that they have lots of time to sit around and chat as they wait. The trauma bay dominates their discussion, along with a few other work topics, and they have a lively debate about trauma triage that ends with both of them agreeing that the other has some good points, whether or not their mind was changed.

It’s the thing about working with Bernie, Serena finds. They don’t get along all the time, certainly not, they’re too different—were trained too disparately—but they respect each other and they’re always able to work together despite their different methods. Even if Bernie thinks pineapple’s an appropriate topping for pizza. Horrific.

The pizza is incredible. Better than any Serena’s ever had. They wash it down with copious amounts of shiraz and spend the rest of the evening on the back porch, sometimes talking but often just sitting quietly beside each other, soaking in each other’s presence. Elinor comes home from work, eats a couple of pieces of pizza and goes as far as to compliment Bernie’s efforts before disappearing upstairs. Serena sips at her wine and thinks to herself that this is the warmest her home has felt in ages.

* * *

A week and a half later, it’s a remarkably slow day on the ward, so Bernie’s spending it in the office catching up on paperwork. It’s still officially Serena’s office, of course, even if over the past couple of months it has slowly transformed into a shared space between them, even if it feels more like  _their_ office now. She’s knee deep in bureaucracy, concentrating intensely on the work she has in front of her. She doesn’t hear her phone at first, it’s set to vibrate, buried in the bottom of her bag. Once she realises that the faint buzzing she hears is the phone going off, it takes her a few seconds to fish it out.

“Wolfe,” she answers. Clipped army tone something she’s unlikely to ever abandon.

“Bernie? It’s um, it’s Elinor. Elinor Campbell.” It certainly is, though the panicked breathy tone sounds far from the sardonic and confident voice Bernie is used to from Serena’s daughter.

“Elinor. Hello. What can I help you with?”

“Um, it’s… You know, when you gave me your number you said I could call any time?”

“I did. Are you okay?”

“Not really. Can you come get me? I’ll text you the address.”

“Of course,” Bernie’s already reaching into her bag for her keys as she speaks.

“And Bernie?”

“Mmm?”

“Please don’t tell my mum.”

Elinor hangs up immediately after Bernie’s affirmative reply and Bernie is left with the issue of having to dash out of work—for who knows how long—something that Serena will have to know about, without being able to tell her why. She doesn’t want to lie to Serena, really really doesn’t want to, but she’s worried about Elinor. What could she have possibly gotten into that she felt the need to call her? Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Bernie grabs her bag and leaves the office in search of Serena, mind quickly made up: she’s just going to have to.

She finds Serena quickly enough, looking over a patient with Lou and calls her to the side.

“What is it Bernie?” Serena asks, reaching out and squeezing Bernie’s shoulder, face drawn in concern. “You’re pale as a sheet.”

“I just got a call,” Bernie says, hating herself as she continues. “It’s Charlotte. She’s sort of in a bad way, needs me to go get her. Is it okay if I—”

“Of course,” Serena’s reply is immediate. “I’ll cover for you here, just go take care of your daughter.”

“Thank you, Serena,” Bernie says, “really, I mean it.”

“Think nothing of it. I know if it were Elinor you would do the same for me. Now go!”

Serena’s words, as well intentioned as they are, just serve to dig the knife deeper into Bernie’s chest, her guilt at having to keep this from Serena already eating at her. But still, she rationalises to herself as she dashes out to the car park, the lie is to help Serena so it isn’t really betrayal, is it?

It’s a good enough rationalisation for now, at least.

Bernie’s grip on the steering wheel as she drives is white-knuckled, she’s terrified about what she’s going to find. She remembers Serena’s story, the call from Elinor, the state she was in when Serena found her, wonders with ever-increasing anxiety if this is going to be history repeating itself. She knows through her job the sorts of conditions addicts get themselves into, and she is petrified at what she might find at her destination.

She walks up to the door, knocks, waits, knocks again. Finally, the door opens, the girl standing there is probably about the same age as Elinor, blonde, and she reeks of marijuana.

“Can I help you?” she asks Bernie, somehow managing to look bored and disdainful and annoyed all at once which is, Bernie thinks, quite the feat.

“I’m here for Elinor,” she says calmly. “Elinor Campbell.”

“Who the hell are you?” the girl asks. And that’s a good point. Bernie quickly casts about for an appropriate lie.

“I’m her stepmum,” she says. That will give her some status, she figures.

“I thought Ellie’s stepmum was young. Like, way young.”

“The one married to her father is,” Bernie says plainly, allows a second for that to sink in before continuing, “now, I’d like to see my stepdaughter if that’s alright with you.” The girl scoffs, but just as Bernie’s considering shouldering her way past her into the house and finding Elinor herself, she turns and yells Elinor’s name back into the house. There’s a pause, and then Elinor comes to the door.

Bernie smiles at her and Elinor gives her a wan little smile in return.

“Do you have all your things?” she asks Elinor, and at her nod Bernie hands over the key to her car. “I’m parked across the street,” she tells Elinor calmly, “why don’t you go get in the car, I’ll be right there.” She puts as much weight into her words as possible, watches in satisfaction as Elinor takes the key without protest and moves off. Before the blonde girl can close the door, Bernie steps onto the sill, leaning in close.

“I think you’re not going to contact Elinor again,” she says softly.

“I think you can fuck off,” the girl replies. Pleasant.

“Um,” Bernie doesn’t look the girl in the eye, doesn’t raise her voice either. “Not only am I a surgeon with decades of experience I also happen to be a former soldier. I’m a good shot, and I know where to aim.”

“You can’t threaten me.”

“I’m not,” Bernie replies, voice still low. “I’m merely sharing facts. Like the fact that you and your friends aren’t going to text Elinor anymore, or contact her on social media, and if you see Elinor on the street you’re not even going to wave hello.” She hardens her voice then, notes the way the girl swallows nervously in response, “leave her alone.”

The girl nods, still looking petulant, but Bernie knows her words have made an impact. She knows that a barrier like this is enough that she won’t go out of her way to contact Ellie again. And, well, the rest of the staying away from them will be up to Elinor.

Bernie nods and turns away, walks back to her car, slides into the driver’s seat, and drives away without looking back.

They drive in silence for a few moments, Bernie’s not really going in any direction, just wanted to leave as quickly as possible, to get Elinor far away and then maybe start to deal with why she called her there in the first place.

“Thank you,” Elinor says after a few minutes. It’s much meeker than Bernie’s used to with her.

“‘You’re welcome,” Bernie replies simply. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

“Her name’s Cara,” Elinor’s speech is halting and unsure, Bernie doesn’t press her, just waits for her to continue. “She’s a friend from, um, before… everything. She was one of the girls I always went out and partied with.”

“I didn’t think you were talking to any of them anymore,” Bernie says. Does her best to keep her tone level, non-judgemental.

“I wasn’t. No insta or snapchat or anything, in rehab they had us delete practically everyone. No contact with the bad influences, right?”

“Makes sense,” Bernie agrees. “It’s past noon,” she says, quickly changing the subject, “have you had lunch yet?”

“No,” Elinor says.

“Right, food it is then.” Bernie knows that food will help this. She knows from many a terrified private that a tale is better told on a full stomach. She turns off the street into the car park of a cafe gets a mug of tea and a sandwich for each of them and waits patiently until Elinor’s done eating for her to continue her story.

“I popped into Boots last week after work and Cara was there. Just ran into each other, completely out of the blue. She was so lovely, talking about how great it was to see me and everything, and she invited me to go for lunch with her and I mean I always did like her and I thought what’s the harm? I know what everyone says about old friends and old habits but I thought, well…” she trails off.

“You thought that it wouldn’t be an issue for you,” Bernie says with a nod.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“And?”

“It was fine at first. We met up at a café and then Cara suggested we come back here to her place, a couple other people showed up. Lots of people I hadn’t seen in ages. They were smoking, I’m sure you could smell it, but nobody said anything when I didn’t partake. Then they started drinking, and I didn’t want to, said I would just have a pop and be fine. And then Cara, kind of, you know, started going after me for it. Asked me if I was some killjoy now, told me to ‘live a little’. Everybody else joined in, trying to cajole me into having a drink,” Elinor pauses at that, looks over at Bernie like she’s waiting for her reaction before she continues.

“Okay.” It’s all Bernie can think of to say off the bat. She’s never been good at comforting but she knows Ellie needs just that right now. “If you had a drink Elinor that doesn’t magically erase all your progress. It doesn’t void all the hard work you’ve done. You still did the right thing, you still got yourself out of the situation.” Elinor bites her lip and nods.

“I didn’t, thank god, I mean. I pretended to but I just tipped the bottle into my cup without anything coming out, or not much of anything at least.”

“Smart move, I don’t know if I would’ve been that quick on my feet.”

“Well,” Elinor shrugs off the compliment, “it was the best I could think of. And then I went to the loo and, um…”

“Called me.”

“Yeah. I mean, I tried calling Lib but she didn’t answer, and Dad’s out of the country and I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

“It’s fine, Elinor,” Bernie says, “I’m really glad you did.”

“I know it might seem stupid, like I could’ve just walked out of there but I was… I was scared. And I didn’t really know how to just leave.”

“You did the right thing,” Bernie says, hoping her voice sounds comforting at the least.

“You didn’t tell my mum, right? Like you said?” Elinor looks afraid now, more than anything, and Bernie wants so badly to assuage that fear, to make her understand that Serena wouldn’t judge her if she knew.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Thank god.”

“But Elinor,” Bernie presses, “I think you should tell her. I, um, I think she needs to know.”

“No. No no no,” Elinor says, “she’ll kill me.” She drinks some of her tea and then continues, her voice smaller than before. “Worse, she’ll be disappointed in me.”

Bernie’s quite sure that that’s not true at all, but she can’t do anything about it, doesn’t know what to say to make Elinor understand that if anything Serena would be proud of her for thinking quickly, for getting herself out of there.

She drives Elinor home before heading back to work, unsure of how she can keep this secret from Serena.

“How’s Charlotte?” Serena asks as soon as she sees Bernie and Bernie wonders if the guilt she feels is scrawled across her face.

“She’s fine, now,” Bernie says and wishes desperately she could just tell Serena the truth.

* * *

Serena never thinks about the fact that her and Bernie’s phones are nigh-identical until, of course, it becomes an issue. It’s two days after Bernie left abruptly in the middle of her shift to go help Charlotte with some crisis and Serena’s hasn’t heard anything more about it. She’s sure Bernie will tell her about it when she’s ready and so, for now she’s let it be. It doesn’t seem to have affected Bernie in any way so she figures it can’t be that bad.

Bernie’s on a patient consult, Lou just grabbed her, and she left her mobile on the desk beside Serena’s. It’s not uncommon for their phones to sit on the shared surface while they work, and surely Bernie didn’t think twice about it. Serena is reading charts, flipping through the stack of them she carried into the office and dropped on her desk, and reaches for her phone without looking. She manages to get the phone unlocked in her hand before she looks over and realises that it’s not her phone. It’s Bernie’s.

Serena is distracted from caring about that however, because in unwittingly unlocking Bernie’s phone she has found herself staring at a string of messages between Bernie and her own daughter.

Why the hell is Bernie texting Elinor?

Serena doesn’t want to pry, she knows she should set the phone down and walk away but her eyes can’t seem to help scanning over the text.

‘That’s not fair Elinor and you know it. I know you and your mum are often at odds but she really is trying her best’, Bernie wrote in her latest message. To which Elinor replied, ‘ugh, yeah, I know’.

She drops the phone immediately, furious. How dare she. How  _dare_ she. Serena cannot believe this. Who is Bernie to be sending patronising texts to Serena’s daughter about Serena’s maternal ability, or lack thereof. She drops into her chair, charting forgotten and continues to fume until Bernie comes back.

Bernie gives her a sort of smile when she comes back in and Serena feels a flash of white hot rage at it. She holds out Bernie’s phone to her and does her best to keep her voice steady as she opens her mouth to speak.

“I grabbed your phone by accident, thought it was mine. I was looking at it before I realised the mistake,” she tells Bernie.

“Okay,” Bernie says, “no big—”

“And lo and behold I find myself looking down at a message between you and my daughter.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’. What Bernie so now you’re going around talking to my daughter behind my back? Commiserating about what an awful mother I am?”

“No! Serena no that’s not—”

“Not what? Not fair? I wouldn’t think so. ‘She really is trying her best’ that’s what you wrote.” She adopts a mocking tone, “oh poor Serena trying so hard to be a good mum but she just can’t manage it.”

“Sere—”

“You know Bernie I don’t know if you’re quite in the position to be going around throwing stones. You’re not exactly Mother of the Decade yourself you know,” Serena watches as she sees that comment hit, as hard as she knew it would. It might not be fair but she’s angry, and Serena’s vicious when she’s angry.

“It’s not like that Serena,” Bernie protests. “It’s, I mean, you’ve taken it out of context.”

“Okay then,” Serena says, “explain it to me. Tell me why I should be anything but absolutely livid right now.”

“I, um, I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t.” Serena storms off at that, takes care to avoid Bernie for the rest of the day. She can see her sometimes, watching her, with that impossibly doe-eyed expression on her face and it just makes her angrier. She feels betrayed, more than anything. And that’s what makes this so bad: Serena had trusted Bernie and Bernie had gone and done this.

When Serena gets home that night, she does her best to act normal around Elinor. It’s not her fault, Serena thinks, not really. Elinor was just being… Elinor. But that hurt, too. She thought that they had been getting along better, that things had been improving between them. After a quiet dinner Serena goes up to her room and shuts the door and does her very best to pretend that this doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

* * *

Bernie had never once stopped to think about how her life would feel if Serena wasn’t her friend. She had taken it for granted really, the warmth she felt from her at every turn. And now that warmth has been replaced with bitter cold and Bernie feels like she’s struggling to breathe. She does her best to convince Elinor to just tell Serena what happened but Elinor won’t and Bernie refuses to betray her confidence. Not least of all because if she does then what would Elinor do the next time—if, god forbid, there is a next time—who would she call then?

No, better for Bernie to stay quiet and shoulder the guilt on her own. She does her best to concentrate on other things, on surgery, on her own life. There’s no going over to Serena’s to spend the day joyously baking this week, so on Saturday morning Bernie rings up Charlotte instead.

“I thought the point of moving out was so you wouldn’t wake me up at some godforsaken hour on the weekends anymore,” Charlotte grumbles into the phone as soon as she picks it up.

“As long as I’m paying for your tuition and your housing I think I get to wake you up whenever I want,” Bernie shoots back.

“Ugh, oh my god, it’s not even seven!”

“And it’s a beautiful morning. Come on, up and at ‘em, I was thinking we could go to the farmer’s market, you need some nice fresh vegetables in your diet.”

Charlotte just groans.

“I’m on my way with coffee,” Bernie tells her, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Her daughter grumbles an assent and hangs up the phone. It really is a gorgeous August morning and Bernie walks from her flat to Charlotte’s housing, stopping for coffee as promised. By the time she arrives Charlotte has managed to haul herself out of bed and into the shower and, though not what Bernie would describe as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, seems to have made her peace with being awake. They walk down to the farmer’s market, a bustling little place on hot summer weekends and Bernie’s happy they got there as early as they did. It’s well before eight and there’s already quite the crowd.

“What are you doing hauling me out of bed for this anyway?” Charlotte asks once she’s finished her coffee and is looking substantially more awake. “I would’ve thought you’d be spending your weekends with Serena.” Bernie doesn’t respond to that, though Charlotte must see something on her face because she continues on, “gosh mum! What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bernie replies succinctly and Charlotte, thankfully, lets it be. Though not before shooting Bernie a look filled with concern.

Bernie concentrates on the mission at hand instead. She leads Charlotte on a winding trail through the stalls, inspecting charmingly misshapen vegetables and sampling little pieces of fruit. She’s more than happy to buy Charlotte anything she shows interest in, figures she deserves some sort of repayment for being brought out here anyway. She buys her some artisan sausages as well, and a good assortment of little candies from a stall full of such goodies. She sees that amongst their array of truffles they have ones made with shiraz and the thought that she should buy some for Serena flits through her mind. She swallows hard, she can’t buy them for Serena because she and Serena are no longer friends. She turns away and tries to ignore the look of concern that once again covers Lottie’s face.

Once they’ve thoroughly inspected each of the stalls of food, they move through to the other side of the market. This is full of stalls selling other sorts of things. Crafts and artisan goods and the sort. They start to make their way through, Bernie more than happy to stop wherever Charlotte pleases. She buys her some awfully pricy goat’s milk soap that she likes, stops her protestations with a shake of her head.

“You don’t have to buy me things, mum,” Charlotte says.

“I know,” Bernie replies, because she does, she’s long past the stage at which she felt like she needed to buy her children’s affections. “But I like to.”

Charlotte shrugs, thanks her for the soap, and moves on. She stops next at a little stall selling cross-stitches. Charlotte’s entranced by one of the more complex pieces—a stunning landscape piece of Dorset’s coastline, blue waves crashing against tall cliffs, and while she talks to the girl running the stall about it, Bernie looks over the other pieces. There are many of varying sizes, but it’s one near the back that catches Bernie’s eye. It’s small and simple, framed by the hoop it was stitched in, but it’s the quote that strikes her.

‘someone asked me

to describe home

and i started talking about your hair color

and the sound of your voice

and the taste of your lips

and how your skin feels like

until i realized

they had expected to hear a place’

It hits Bernie square in the chest. The border is of simple black lines and two hearts and she’ll be damned if those hearts aren’t exactly the colour of shiraz. How often has she thought of home, recently? Home and Serena. Two things inextricably linked in Bernie’s mind. Though not, she figures, anymore. Not that Serena’s coldness has done anything to change how Bernie feels. If anything, the separation is only teaching her how deep her feelings truly run. She needs to own this, this little piece of embroidery. Thinks that when she leaves Holby, which is only about a month away, if she can have nothing of Serena, she’ll want this with her at the least. She tries not to think of being in some new flat in some new town and staring at this on her wall—she doesn’t want to face that thought right now.

“Excuse me,” she says to the girl. “Sarah, is it?” she assumes, because the sign above her wares proclaims ‘sarah dude’ in bright yellow letters. The girl turns around and smiles and Bernie looks at her dungarees and her big round glasses and feels her age: she can remember when those were all in fashion the first time around. “This is twenty-five pounds, right?” that’s what the sign on the table had seemed to say.

“Twenty actually,” Sarah says, and smiles, “it’s on sale.”

“My lucky day then,” Bernie says, reaching into her wallet for the cash. Charlotte takes the piece from her and looks it over, looks at Bernie after she’s read it and Bernie thinks there’s too much understanding in her eyes. She looks like she might say something, then, but to Bernie’s immense gratitude she just gives a little smile and hands it back.

The last thing Bernie wants to do is explain her broken heart to her daughter in the middle of a busy farmer’s market on a Saturday morning.

They leave soon after, having seen everything there is to see. They carry their purchases back to Charlotte’s place, get any perishables into the fridge and then talk about the rest of the day. Charlotte agrees to walk back to Bernie’s house with her.

“Why don’t you bring your running things?” she suggests. “It’s been awhile since you and I went for a run together.”

“Okay but I hope you don’t think you’re going to beat me.”

“I wouldn’t be so cocky, if I were you. Don’t forget what happened the last time you raced me.”

“True,” Charlotte admits, “but you’re getting old.”

“Old! We’ll see about that!”

They do go for that run, it’s been a long time since Bernie paced herself beside someone else and she finds herself having to work harder than usual to keep pace with her daughter. She needs to time her runs more, she thinks, if she really wants to keep her endurance up. Still, she manages to scrounge up enough energy for a last minute sprint that leaves Charlotte in her dust and she teases her about age before beauty the whole way home.

“Where are you going to put it up?” Charlotte asks about the cross-stitch, after they’ve both showered and changed. “It would go nicely in the kitchen, I think.”

“No,” Bernie shakes her head, “I, um, I need more time to decide where to put it,” she lies. She doesn’t want to put it up anywhere, is the thing. This is the sort of thing Bernie wants to keep in a box, or a drawer, at least for now. She isn’t ready to confront it, to confront the truths it spells out to her, every single day.

“Okay,” Charlotte says with a roll of her eyes and a look on her face that says she thinks Bernie’s being weird but doesn’t care enough to pursue it.

Eventually Charlotte goes back to her place, leaving Bernie alone in her flat. She pours herself some whiskey and sits on the sofa with the beautiful cross-stitch in her hands, running her fingers over the words. What in the world is she supposed to do? When home has become a person and that person doesn't want anything to do with her?

She wishes, so very desperately, that she knew of a way to fix this with Serena. A way to do it without betraying Elinor’s trust, that is. She knows she’ll never have as much of Serena as she truly wants, she’s made her peace with that, but to not even have her as a friend seems to Bernie a fate most dire.

* * *

Serena manages to avoid Bernie successfully for almost a week. They’re still working the same shift, will be until Serena can change the schedule in a couple of weeks. But they manage not to be in the office at the same time, not to consult on the same patients. Surgeries are tackled solo, and Serena reminds herself that Bernie will be gone soon anyway, that she should never have learned to rely on her in the first place.

They keep up this uneasy divide until the following Thursday, when Bernie breaks the unspoken rules by coming into the office while Serena’s in there working. Standing by the door and wringing her hands until Serena looks up at her.

“Can we talk?” she asks timidly and Serena just scowls. “I need to explain. The thing, with Elinor, the text you saw…”

“Go on then,” Serena says dismissively. Might as well get this over with.  

“Can we do this somewhere else?” Bernie suggests. “The roof maybe?”

Serena sighs but goes along with it. The ride up in the lift is silent and tense and as soon as they step out onto the rooftop Serena turns to Bernie, her arms crossed in frustration.

“So you have an explanation now?” Serena’s tone is biting, dismissive.

“I always had—it’s… I couldn’t…”

“Oh for goodness sake Bernie just get on with it. I have a ward to get back to in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Sorry. Um, yeah. It’s… You know last week, that day I ran out in the middle of the day?”

“That thing with Charlotte?”

“Yeah. Except, uh, it wasn’t Charlotte who needed me.”

“Elinor?”

“Yeah. I gave her my number ages ago, just in case she needed me and, um, she called me, asked me to come get her.”

“Oh god,” Serena can feel her heart drop in terror, a thousand awful possibilities flitting through her mind. “Bernie tell me it wasn’t—”

“No. Serena... Serena it wasn’t bad. I mean, it wasn’t great but it wasn’t…” Bernie lifts her hand in the air, looks for a second like she might be about to clasp Serena’s shoulder in comfort, but she drops it to her side again before she continues. “She had met up with an old friend, one of the girls she knew back when she was, um, using. They went over to her place and Elinor, just, underestimated what a bad idea that would be? Some people came over and they started being nasty, pressuring her to drink, that sort of—she didn’t though! She said she pretended to and then she called me. She said she was scared, didn’t want to leave on her own.”

“And you went and got her,” Serena says quietly. She’s thinking now about how horrid she’s been to Bernie when Bernie had only ever done her best to help.

“Yeah. I really wanted to tell you, Serena. I hated lying to you, but she made me promise not to tell and I thought, well, better to have to lie to you and know that she was safe then…”

“No, Bernie, you did the right thing,” she reaches out and grabs Bernie’s hand, squeezes it gently. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me Serena, it’s what you do—” Bernie stops suddenly, shakes her head. “It’s what anyone would’ve done.” It’s not, Serena knows that, but she appreciates even more Bernie’s approach to all this. She wishes desperately she could do something to thank her properly.

“I just don’t understand why she felt like she couldn’t tell me,” Serena says then. Because after everything, that still stings. “Why did she feel she had to keep it a secret? I thought we had made so much progress, but I guess not.”

“I was trying to convince her to tell you,” Bernie says, “that’s what my texts were about. I guess you didn’t see Elinor’s reply though.”

“I did. I distinctly remember something along the lines of an ‘ugh yeah’.”

“That was the first part, um, you didn’t see what came after that?”

“No.” Serena shakes her head, wonders what it could’ve been. Wonders if it was even worse?

Bernie doesn't say anything, just pulls out her phone, scrolls through the messages until she finds the relevant section and hands it over. Serena looks down at the screen, re-reads the words that set her off in the first place. ‘That’s not fair Elinor and you know it. I know you and your mum are often at odds but she really is trying her best’, and Elinor’s reply of ‘ugh, yeah, I know’. Under that bubble is another one, though, one Serena didn’t see before. ‘I just don’t want to disappoint her. I feel like this is the first time she’s ever been proper proud of me, like I’ve finally  been doing the right thing. And if I tell her this…’

“Oh dear,” Serena says.

“I did try to tell her that you would still be proud of her. More proud, even, because of how well she’d handled it all. But, well, I’m no Mother of the Decade myself but I think she might need to hear it from you.”

“Sorry, about that comment,” Serena winces, “it was unfair.”

“No it wasn’t. It was true. And I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted the same way in your position.”

“Want me to get Charlotte to ring me up the next time she’s drunk at a party and needs a lift?”

“Please do! I’d much rather you be the one getting woken up at three am.” They both dissolve into laughter, out of relief more than anything else, and Serena leans into Bernie, rests her head on her chest

“Was motherhood meant to be this hard?” she asks quietly.

“Oof, I don’t know really,” Bernie replies, wrapping a comforting arm around Serena’s shoulders. “Certainly looks easier to everyone else doesn’t it?”

“It really does. Maybe between the two of us we can make one halfway decent parent.”

“I think you’d be doing about seventy five percent of the heavy lifting on that one.”

“I’m not the daring action woman who went dashing across town to save my daughter.”

“Mmm, maybe so. Well, I’ll watch your back if you watch mine, how’s that? With the kids and with everything else.”

“Works for me Major,” she stands back then, gives Bernie a warm smile. “Speaking of the ‘everything else’ we should probably get back to our ward shouldn’t we?”

“I have heard Ms. Grayson prefers it when her surgeons actually do their jobs, yes.”

That evening when Serena gets home, later than usual as she couldn’t bear to tear herself away from Bernie and Albie’s and glass after glass of shiraz, she walks up the stairs to Elinor’s room, knocks on the door and then cracks it open.

Elinor’s curled up in a little ball, completely covered by the comforter and Serena can’t help but smile a little at that. She used to do the same thing when she was just a little girl and knew she was in trouble. She sits down on the edge of the bed, gently teases down the comforter to expose Elinor’s face. She looks worried, more than anything, and Serena’s heart aches at that.

“I’m very proud of you,” she says quietly, and she watches the impact of her words sink in.

“Really?” Elinor asks, still so worried. Serena nods.

“Really. You found yourself in a very difficult situation and you got yourself out of there.”

“I’m sorry I made Bernie lie to you,” Elinor says then.

“I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me,” Serena says, “but I do understand.” There’s a beat of silence and then she speaks up again, “I am very glad that you felt like you could confide in Bernie, though. If it couldn’t have been me, I’m glad you chose her.” Much better than bloody Liberty, Serena thinks, though she keeps that particular sentiment to herself.

“Mum, about Bernie…” Elinor starts to say.

“Yes?”

“Um, no,” Elinor shakes her head, “never mind, it’s nothing. Just... I’m glad she’s a part of your life.”

“Me too darling, me too.”

* * *

The next day, when Serena comes into the office she greets Bernie with a winning smile and Bernie’s just glad to have things back to normal. The guilt of lying to Serena had been eating away at her and the relief she feels at everything being out in the open is immense. Serena seems to have effortlessly picked back up where they left off, no hint of rancour between them, and Bernie is more than happy to follow her lead. She had been trying to make her peace with not having Serena in her life at all, Serena's response is better than she could've ever hoped for. Still, she needs to watch herself. What she had said on the rooftop, what she had almost said rather, when she had come with inches of telling Serena ‘it’s what you do for the people you love’, that had been pure foolishness. She needs to keep better control of herself, of her tongue. Lest this happy balance, so suddenly re-found, comes crashing down around her.

“Um, I talked to Jayne,” Serena says, sounding less sure than she normally does. “I told her that I need more time with you—I mean, that the department needs more time with you, with our trauma consultant, of course.”

“Of course,” Bernie agrees, finds the way that Serena’s stumbling over her words to be absolutely adorable.

“She’s going to offer to extend your contract today, through to October. If you want to, of course.”

“I’d love to stay,” Bernie says quietly.   

“You don’t have anything else lined up, do you?” Serena asks, “I mean, you haven’t mentioned anything.”

“No, I don’t. I’ll stay, of course I will.” Bernie thinks she’d stay forever, if Serena asked, but Serena isn’t asking. October will have to do.

“Did you hear from Anna?” Serena asks, switching subjects suddenly. “They’re releasing the names of the contestants soon.”

“Next week,” Bernie says with a nod. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.”

“Just wait till the show starts airing,” Serena grins, “are you ready to be Britain’s sweetheart?”

Bernie thinks to herself that if anyone is going to be Britain’s sweetheart from the show, it’s Serena. She just hopes that people don’t mind too terribly when she wins.


	17. The Premiere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's posted early in honour of Nova who's 25 today! what a gem! this fic wouldn't exist without her!!!
> 
> also i recently discovered that nigella lawson is hot as hell? idk how i've gone through life for so long without knowing but my life is better now that it's filled with this knowledge

Serena walks into the office that Monday morning with a copy of The Guardian under her arm and a huge grin on her face.

“Have you seen it yet?” she asks Bernie excitedly.

“No,” Bernie says, shaking her head, and stands up to look at the paper that Serena lays out on the desk.

It’s a two page spread, the announcement of the new Bake Off competitors, with photos of each of them from the shoot they did the very first day of filming. Beside each of them is a bio and Serena reads over all of them with interest. They stand shoulder to shoulder, pointing out different aspects until they hear someone come up behind them, and they turn around.

“Oh. My. God.” That’s Lou, standing in the doorway to their office holding up her mobile phone, open to the twitter announcement. “Are you effing kidding me?”

Serena gives her a blank look, then turns to Bernie.

“Ms. Wolfe have you any idea what Nurse Morley is talking about?”

“Absolutely no clue,” Bernie plays along gamely.

“Oh come on now! Bake Off! Both of you!”

“Ohhhh,” Serena says as though she’s just understood what she means. “That! You know, it was really just a way to while away the weekend through the summer.” She can only keep that up for a second before breaking out into a huge smile.

“Yes. Bake Off. Both of us. Though Ms. Wolfe didn't actually work here at the time.”

“I noticed your bio said London,” Lou nods. “Wait, so you two knew each other before Ms. Wolfe started here? You certainly didn’t act like it.”

“Well we could hardly say anything, could we?” Serena says. “Plus we thought it would be a lovely surprise.”

“A surprise it is,” Lou agrees. “I hope you two did our ward proud.”

She moves on, then, to things that hold closer to the job, a quick primer on the patients she needs consults on and a couple more administrative things, and Serena leaves the paper and the big announcement behind her as she leaves the office and gets to work.

The day doesn’t slow down from there, it’s consult after consult sandwiched between colleagues from all over the hospital finding some excuse or another to drop by AAU and mention the news. A couple of patients recognise her as well from the announcement, and Serena doesn’t mind the questions or the excitement, finds her newfound celebrity only really bugs her when some patients act as though it’s impossible for her to be both a good baker and a good surgeon.

She texts Bernie around noon, they haven’t seen each other all day and Serena’s sure her day’s just as busy, asks her if she wants to meet her outside for a coffee and a few moments of silence later but Bernie doesn’t get back to her. It bugs her more than she’d like to admit, Bernie’s silence. She knows she’s not been in theatre all day (because she finally gave in and checked with Lou) and she wonders if she somehow did something to offend Bernie without knowing.

It’s evening, past when both of them should’ve left already, when Serena walks into her office to find Bernie sitting there working.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless, maybe, offers Bernie a shy smile.

“Hi,” Bernie says, smiles in return.

“I, um,” Serena fiddles with the folder in her hands, “I texted you earlier…”

“Oh! Did you? Sorry, I uh, haven’t been able to use my phone.”

“Huh?”

Bernie just pulls her phone out, unlocks it and hands it to Serena. It vibrates almost continuously in her hands and she watches notification after notification flit across the screen. “I, uh, it keeps doing that and every time I try to hit something…”

“You hit the notification instead?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just twitter looks like,” Serena says then. “Why don't you just change your notification settings?” Bernie looks at her completely blankly. “Right, sorry I forgot.” Serena unlocks the phone, goes to twitter and switches off the notifications for new followers on twitter. “There,” she says, handing the phone back to Bernie.

“Thanks,” Bernie says, and checks her messages immediately. “Sorry,” she says, “I would’ve loved to have gone and had a coffee with you. Was your day as hectic as mine?”

“You have no idea.”

Two weeks. Two tumultuous weeks. That’s how long there is between their names are announced and the show airs. More and more people, co-workers and patients alike, mention the fact that she and Bernie are on the show together and there’s an air of celebration about AAU. Serena feels as though she’s started fielding more questions about Bake Off than about treatments and prognoses.

Raf’s arranged a viewing party for the premiere because of course he has. Serena gets the facebook invite the same day as the air date is announced and Serena immediately RSVPs for her and Bernie both. Bernie, despite Serena’s protestations, has consistently refused to get a facebook account.

“What’s the point?” she had finally said. “Who am I going to add on there? Anyone I knew before the divorce has surely gotten Marcus’ view of the whole thing since and I don’t see the point in talking to people I haven’t seen since secondary school. Plus,” she had added after a second, looking up at Serena through that impossibly long fringe, “the only person I’d want to be friends with is you and if I want to know what you’re doing at any given moment I can just text you.”

Serena had thought that response entirely too sweet and, so, had left it at that.

A week before the party Raf posts a list of who should bring what for the potluck. They’re both in the office when Serena gets the notification and Bernie leans over her shoulder to read it off her screen.

“Ooh you got desserts, lucky you,” Bernie says. “I don’t know what I did to piss off Raf so he put me on salads.”

“There’s nothing wrong with salads,” Serena replies, knowing full well she, Jac, and Dom got the choicest assignment.

“When have you ever in your life heard someone at a potluck rave about the salad?”

“Good point,” Serena says with a gloating smile as Bernie heads back over to her side of the room.

“What are you going to bring?” Bernie asks.

“Do you remember that ginger tart I served you, oh must have been week before last? The creamy one with the mango on top?”

“Oh yes,” Bernie says with a smile. “You’ll be the talk of the party with that.”

“I know,” Serena agrees. “What do you think you’ll bring?”

“Mmm, not sure.”

“I have a recipe or you if you want,” she offers. “Sort of a riff on a niçoise. Potatoes, green beans, hard boiled eggs. It’s smashing.”

“Does it still count as a salad at that point?” Bernie asks with a little smile.

“Of course! It’s French!”

Bernie just laughs, shakes her head and accepts Serena’s offer graciously.

“Oh,” she says then. “I was thinking.”

“Yes?” Serena looks across at her, finds Bernie doing her thing she always does when she’s a bit unsure: biting her lip and looking askance and making Serena wonder if this is really the same woman who so deftly commandeers the trauma bay at a moment’s notice.

“With the party, um, I was wondering if you wanted to. I mean, I have, my flat. In London. We could stay there, if you’d like? Save us a late night drive?”

“That sounds marvellous,” Serena agrees with a smile. Wonders why Bernie gets herself so worried about little things like this. Still, she finds it touching that she cares enough about what Serena thinks and wants to get all worked up in the first place. “We could leave early from work on Wednesday, take Thursday morning off to nurse what I’m sure will be a couple of marvellous hangovers.”

“Well,” Bernie says, and Serena can see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’ll have to see if my boss will let me have the time off.”

“Oh,” Serena grins at her, “I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way to convince her.” She winks, wonders if the colour in Bernie’s cheeks is darker than it was a moment before, “I’ve heard she’ll do almost anything for a bottle of shiraz.”

Soon enough, the day of the premiere is upon them. The hospital is buzzing with it all day and Serena has a hell of a time getting her staff to concentrate on their work and not whether or not she’ll make it through the first week. Lou somehow manages to be both her incredibly competent and efficient usual self and devote an inconceivable amount of time to trying to wheedle spoilers out of her and once Serena finally shoos her off for good she sees her starting all over again with Bernie. She sighs, rolls her eyes, and thanks god that her work isn’t suffering for it.

She brought her travel case to the office with her, and she changes into her party outfit in the locker room just before they’re ready to go. It’s a little black dress, a simple A-line thing with a boat neck and no sleeves that ends just before her knees. Nothing revolutionary by any means but paired with daring red heels it definitely does the trick. She checks her makeup in the loo, worries a little at her reflection in the mirror. They were told to dress up a little, she just hopes she’s managed to strike the right tone. Certainly doesn’t want to ridiculous, mutton dressed as lamb or anything like that.

“You look amazing,” Bernie says when Serena comes back to their office, her voice sounds a little odd but Serena pays it no mind.

“Do you think?” Serena asks, twirling around. “Doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard?”

“No. No, really Serena. You look absolutely perfect.” Her tone is so fervent, so sure that Serena has to believe her.

“Thank you.” She notices then that Bernie’s changed too, “forget about me though! Look at you!” She wolf whistles playfully and Bernie ducks her head shyly.

She does look absolutely amazing, really. Tight black slacks and shiny black oxfords and her shirt is a shimmery white blouse type thing with a cowl neckline that cuts lower than Serena would’ve expected, the folds of fabric keeping it from being too risqué.

The drive down in Bernie’s sporty little convertible is as fun as their road trips have always been and Serena sings along to the music Bernie sets to playing and navigates where needed, and mostly just enjoys spending time with her best friend.

They park at Bernie’s flat, leave their luggage in the boot and hail a cab immediately—they’re already on the edge of being fashionably late. By the time they get to Raf’s the party has undoubtedly started, the open concept living room/dining area space bustling with people.

Fletch greets them at the door with a smile, takes their coats and shows them through to the kitchen so they can hand over their potluck contributions to Raf.

“Care for a drink?” Raf asks.

“Please.” Serena responds. “Shiraz, if you have it?”

“Oh come now,” he says with a wide smile, “as though I’d invite Serena Campbell to my house without making sure we were fully stocked up on shiraz!” He pours her a glass of that, the same for Bernie, and they head out into the fray. Pretty soon Raf and Fletch’s eldest, Evie, comes barrelling up to them to say hi to Bernie and remembering what Bernie had told her about the girl Serena’s excited to get to properly meet her.

“Hi Evie,” Bernie says. “This is my friend Serena, I’m sure you guys met at the finale party.”

“Hello Evie,” Serena says, “I heard you’re going to be a surgeon one day.” Evie just beams.

“I am,” she says with a definitive nod. “Are you a surgeon too?”

“I am,” Serena smiles. “In fact, I’m actually Bernie’s boss.”

“Really? Does that mean you’re a better surgeon than she is? Bernie said she’s one of the best.”

Serena has to work hard not to burst out laughing at that. Of course Bernie did, her confidence in her surgical abilities can only be rivalled by her lack of confidence in anything else she does.

“I would say that we’re both very good,” Serena says with a smile. “I just get to do more paperwork. But, you know, being head of the department I think I might just be able to arrange a very exclusive little tour for one young future surgeon.”

“Really?” Evie says, her eyes filled with excitement. Serena wants to do whatever it takes to foster this spirit, this drive. If only because she can remember how badly she, too, wanted to be a doctor one day when she was that age.

“We’ll have to talk to your dads about it but I think we can make it work.”

Evie chats with them a bit longer before running off, and then Bernie and Serena mingle with the other adults. The contestants are all there, with significant others in tow, and Mel and Sue have come to join the festivities as well. Serena gets embroiled in a long and detailed conversation with Francoise—Ric’s plus one yet again—about NHS policy and the potential of privatisation and what the future of healthcare funding might look like.

When that breaks off, she looks around for Bernie. Ends up spying her across the room, with Dom and Sacha and Sue. She watches them for a few moments and she can’t help but notice the way Sue is acting with Bernie. She’s flirting, definitely, reaching over to touch Bernie’s arm at any opportunity and laughing extra hard at anything Bernie says; it makes Serena’s stomach roil. It’s ridiculous, of course, completely irrational, but Serena’s always been a jealous person and she’s closer to Bernie than she’s ever been to a friend before. What would it be like, she thinks, if Bernie dated someone. Not Sue, necessarily, but anyone. The thought bothers Serena. Because it would mean less time with Bernie, she tells herself, because it would mean she would no longer have Bernie’s undivided attention.

She realises she might be glaring at Sue and that’s stupid because Serena likes Sue, she really really does. She just needs to get a handle on whatever absurd feelings she’s having. She can feel the beginnings of a headache forming, right between her eyebrows, and looks around. There, the sliding doors leading to the backyard. She could definitely use some air.

Her fantasy of a quiet moment away from the hullabaloo of the party is quickly destroyed by the fact that soon after she slips through the door and into the lovely outdoors she runs, almost literally, into Jac and Zosia. They have apparently decided that Raf’s backyard was the right place to sneak off to and start snogging like teenagers. She rolls her eyes and turns around, stalks back inside. The headache is strengthening now, gaining ground.

“Serena?” she hears behind her and she turns around, finds herself face to face with Bernie. She reaches out her hand to gently touch Serena’s wrist. “I was looking around for you and I saw you go outside. Are you okay?” The fact that Bernie was looking for her, cared about where she was suffuses her with warmth.

“I’m fine,” she says, grabbing Bernie’s hand and squeezing her fingers. “I was starting to get a bit of a headache but it’s gone now.” That’s true, surprisingly. The pressure mounting in her forehead has completely disappeared. She smiles at Bernie, “come along Ms. Wolfe, looks like we could both use a top up on our wine.”

Dinner starts soon, the kitchen island has been set up as a buffet table. The spread is impressive, but Serena figures that’s sort of what you’d expect when you bring together twelve of Britain’s best amateur bakers and ask them to cook for you.

She and Bernie have a seat at one of the tables, plates piled high, and start digging in. After they’ve eaten there’s dessert and yet more drinks. Serena’s tart is, of course, lauded with praise. She chats with Henrik and Essie, catching up on what they’ve been doing since they left the show, and commiserates with Essie over the hardship of raising teenagers (even if Elinor isn’t technically a teenager anymore).

After Essie and Henrik both move on, Serena looks around for Bernie and doesn’t see her immediately. That’s strange, usually her messy blonde head is immediately visible to Serena’s eye—even across a bustling surgical ward. Serena takes a stroll around the room to look for her, and then stops Raf to ask him if he’s seen her. He hasn’t and neither has Fletch. Serena thinks of Bernie’s introverted tendencies, wonders if she might have disappeared somewhere for a moment or two alone. She’s not in the backyard, so Serena quietly makes her way upstairs in search of her. She follows the sound of children laughing through to the doorway of a large room; the floor is strewn with toys, the walls covered in drawings of various skill levels. In the centre of the room is Bernie, lying on her back on the ground. Evie is knelt beside her, a plastic child’s surgery set open on the ground.

“She’s bleeding internally,” Evie says very seriously, “we’ll have to open her up.” She turns to Mikey, kneeling beside her. “Scalpel,” she says and he slaps it into her hand.

Serena sips at her wine and leans against the door jamb and watches them play. Bernie helps out with her surgery with helpful titbits like pointing out where her spleen would be and the scene continues until Theo stumbles over Bernie and falls onto her chest.

“Oof,” Bernie says before grabbing the boy and lifting him high as he squeals in delight. The game switches, then, to Bernie chasing after all of them as a ‘tickle monster’ as the children run about her shouting and laughing. It makes Serena’s heart tighten in her chest, the sheer cuteness of the whole situation. Bernie’s face is clear and open, joyful, and Serena thinks she would do anything she could if she could just keep Bernie this happy all the time.

“She’s great with them,” Fletch murmurs behind her and Serena jumps as she whirls around.

“You scared me,” she says. She wonders how long Fletch has been there, watching her watch Bernie, wonders what he makes of it, and she can feel the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Sorry,” he replies with a shrug and a kind smile. They turn back in time to see the kids team up and mount a counter defence on Bernie, tackling her to the ground and piling on top of her as she cries for mercy. “Alright, alright, that’s quite enough!” Fletch says striding into the room. “I think Bernie’s borne enough abuse for one day.” He scoops up Theo and ruffles Mikey’s hair. “Show’s about to start anyway, who wants to see Papa bake?”

“Me! Me!” the cry comes up from all of them and Fletch, smiling, leads his brood down the stairs.

Bernie gets to her feet with a groan and looks sort of curiously at Serena. As she makes her way out of the room Serena reaches out a hand, touches her arm to stop her in her tracks.

“I know you think you were a bad mum,” she says quietly. “But from what Charlotte’s said and watching you here with the Fletchlings, I hope you can see how obvious it is that that’s not true.”

Bernie doesn’t reply to that, just purses her lips and cocks her head and Serena wishes so desperately that Bernie could see herself as Serena sees her.

It’s really fun to crowd around Raf and Fletch’s massive projection screen and watch the show. Serena’s happy with how she’s been portrayed, in fact the editing team has been kind to all of them, and she doesn’t hate watching herself on screen as much as she thought she might. It’s very fun, too, to see the very beginning of her and Bernie’s friendship, the snippets shown where Serena can see the two of them making eye contact across the tent and smiling encouragement at each other. The group cheers at the announcement that Serena’s Star Baker and there’s a chorus of disappointed sounds when Essie is announced as going home.

In the end, when she and Bernie get back to Bernie’s flat it’s almost midnight, and they’re both happily sloshed. Serena leans into Bernie as she unlocks the door, murmurs into her neck that she smells good and smiles at Bernie’s guffaw in response.

When they step into the flat, however, Serena immediately sees that they’re not alone. There’s a lamp on in the sitting room and, good lord, two people very much going at it on the sofa. They separate at the sound of them and one of them looks their way, eyes wide in surprise.

“Mum?” he gasps, and Bernie steps back through the door, pulling Serena with her and letting the door shut in front of their faces.

* * *

The last thing Bernie expected when walking into her flat with Serena was to find her son fornicating on the sofa.

“When that boy has his trousers back on I’m going to fucking kill him,” she says darkly to Serena. How dare he use her flat for, for  _this_.

“Language, Ms. Wolfe!” Serena replies, and she’s obviously trying to keep from smiling.

“I’m not fucking kidding,” Bernie says.

“Bernie.” Serena’s tone is calming, just the tiny bit wheedling.

“What? I gave him a key so he could  _study_. Or have some quiet alone time. Not so he could start whoring around London out of my flat.”

“Bernie, c’mon. It’s not like he was having an orgy.” Serena tugs her arm, makes her face her and Bernie can see the mirth in her eyes. “Plus, you’ve got to admit, it’s a little…”

“What?”

“It’s bloody hilarious, darling,” Serena says.

“Hilarious?” Bernie repeats.

“Ummm, yeah!” and then Serena’s laughing, and oh Bernie loves Serena’s laugh. The sound of it calms her enough that she, too, is able to see the funny side of the situation and then she and Serena are falling against each other in their mirth. They calm down after a while, wipe the tears from their eyes.

“I just walked in on my son having sex!” Bernie says finally, her voice still tinged with laughter. “All those years when he was a teenager I was so careful and then…”

“Well I certainly feel I’ve sobered up,” Serena says and Bernie nods.

The door opens, then, and Cam’s standing there, looking as awkward as can be and behind him is the other person from the couch and  _oh_ Cam’s… gay?

“Mum this is Mallory,” Cam says; he’s looking at the ground, at his feet instead of her, ever her son. “She and I work together.”

There’s a split second there while Bernie takes everything in: the makeup Mallory’s wearing, the way Cam stressed the word she and okay. So Cam’s not gay then.

“Nice to meet you, Mallory,” Bernie says, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Wolfe,” she says sweetly. Nice girl, Bernie thinks. Polite. “Sorry about, um…”

“Think nothing of it,” Bernie says because that’s exactly what she’s planning to do: never, ever think of it. “And please, call me Bernie.” Mallory nods and smiles. “You know,” Bernie says then, “Cam never lets me meet his girlfriends.”

“Mum!” Cam protests. “She’s not my girlfriend! God you’re so embarrassing.”

“Mmmph,” Serena makes a sound that to Bernie’s ears bears a striking resemblance to a stifled snort.

“This is my friend Serena,” Bernie says and she and Mallory shake hands.

“Nice to see you again Serena,” Cam says.

“You too Cameron,” Serena replies. She grins wickedly, “could’ve done with seeing a little less of you though.” And it’s Bernie’s turn to stifle a laugh as Cameron turns a deep shade of red.

Cameron and Mallory soon beg off and retreat to the guest room and Bernie leads Serena through to her own room.

“I’ll uh, sleep on the sofa,” Bernie says, rubbing at the back of her neck.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Serena says. “We’ll both fit just fine I should think,” she says gesturing to the bed.

“No, no,” Bernie protests, “it’s fine, really.” She can’t decide if sharing a bed with Serena would be torture or bliss. Probably both.

“Not to toot my own horn,” Serena says, perching on the edge of the bed. “But I think you’ll be a lot more comfortable in bed with me than on a lumpy old couch that we just saw your son having sex on.”

“Eugh I can’t believe it,” Bernie drops down beside her. “He was 8 years old three minutes ago Serena! When did this happen?”

“Oh believe me,” Serena replies, putting a warm hand on Bernie’s shoulder, “I know.”

“I’m taking his key away tomorrow when we leave,” Bernie tells her. She just decided to, but that’s what she has to do.

“What?” Serena looks shocked. “No!”

“You saw it!”

“I certainly did,” Serena’s tone is teasing.

“Oh push off,” Bernie says, rolling her eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So? He’s 24 Bernie. He was having a lovely consensual encounter with a very nice girl, it doesn’t get much more innocent than that.”

“They’re not dating.”

“And? That’s hardly your business.”

“Hmmph.”

“You know what I would’ve done if I’d been 24 and my mother had given me a key to a flat?” Serena arches her brow.

“Do I want to?” Bernie shoots back.

“Think bacchanalia.” Serena’s tone is thrilling and Bernie’s brain spins with the implications.

“I would’ve loved to meet young you,” she says, because she’s intrigued, if a little terrified, at the prospect of it.

“She was fun,” Serena agrees. “But old me is better.”

“I find that very easy to believe.”

Serena laughs, meets Bernie’s eyes with her own and for a moment Bernie can’t tear her gaze away from Serena’s warm dark eyes.

“So what are you going to do?” Serena asks finally. “Still banning the boy for life?”

Bernie sighs, shrugs.

“I don’t know? I, what, I just tell him I’m fine with this? That he should feel free to use my flat as his personal sex pad?”

“Well,” Serena grins, “I wouldn’t exactly use those words. But why not? You’re certainly not using it. You might want to remind him to use protection. And make him promise to clean the place.”

“Oh god!” Bernie groans, because for a moment she’d forgotten about the sofa. “I’m going to have to buy a new sofa.”

“Mmmm, yeah, maybe go with leather next time.”

“Hmm?”

“Easier to clean.”

“Oh you are awful.”

“Guilty as charged. Now come along Ms. Wolfe. Let’s get changed into our pyjamas and you can cuddle me to sleep.”

Bernie wakes up with Serena almost entirely on top of her. Her first thought, upon waking, is just that she’s very comfortable and very very warm. It takes her a few seconds to remember that she’s in her flat in London, and a couple more to realise she’s not alone. She wonders who she might be with, and then she opens her eyes and finds Serena there. The night before comes rushing back all at once.

Serena’s got her head on Bernie’s chest, one arm flung over her waist with her hand resting on Bernie’s hip, and one of her legs between Bernie’s. Also she’s drooled a bit on Bernie’s chest in her sleep and Bernie immediately thinks how cute that is, a thought that’s followed up by a realisation of how fucked she is. Drool is not cute. Serena’s got her head buried between Bernie’s breasts and Bernie just smiles down at the top of her head.

Serena shifts then, squirms around a bit and in consequence her leg that’s nestled right against Bernie’s crotch gets pressed harder against Bernie’s crotch and  _that_ , oh, that is a problem.

Up until this moment, Bernie hadn’t really thought about her (massive) crush on Serena in a particularly sexual way. Well, obviously she had noticed how gorgeous Serena was, had thought in passing about how nice it might be to kiss her or to hold her in her arms and not feel predatory for enjoying it more than a friend should. But now in this instant Bernie is suddenly hit with a pressing, decidedly sexual, need. Her mind runs rampant—it’s morning and she doesn’t quite yet have the defences in place to keep these thoughts at bay—filled with images of kissing Serena. Of sliding her tongue into Serena’s mouth, pressing Serena up against literally any available surface and ravishing her. And now it’s all she can think about.

Bernie has little relevant experience in the matter. In fact during her marriage to Marcus Bernie sort of assumed that she just wasn’t a sexual person. Marcus was always sweet and gentle but she never wanted it, generally spent most of her time avoiding it, and generally didn’t really enjoy it. She tried (she had two kids with the man she definitely tried) but she assumed she was just broken in that way. Another personal failing to be brought up in rows and agonised about late at night between army regulation sheets.

She and Alex never had much time. They waited so long, Bernie refused to do anything beyond a handhold or a chaste kiss until the divorce was finalised, and then they were in different units, barely seeing each other on snippets of leave and it was good but, well, she and Alex were non-starters probably from the moment they tried to take what they had out from their very specific situation. So this. This pure, unbridled lust. This feeling that’s making Bernie’s skin crawl with want, is in so many ways new and exciting and Bernie wishes so badly that she could nudge Serena awake with her lips. Hold her close and pour out of all of these feelings that she—someone to whom words have never come easily—knows she’ll never be able to verbalise, with her actions instead. Wants nothing more than to touch Serena’s body with abandon and whisper love into her skin.

Bernie needs to get out of there. Maybe having some sort of outlandish crush on her friend is, well. Not okay, by any means, but manageable. Not totally reprehensible. But this? Laying here and enjoying the weight of Serena’s body on top of her all too much? This is not good, not right, and Bernie needs to extricate herself immediately.

She thankfully manages to slide out from under Serena without waking her. She makes sure she’s still sleeping once she’s standing beside the bed and she is, dead to the world. So Bernie pads out to the kitchen barefoot, starts the coffee machine and casts about for something to read.

While the morning sun slowly filters into the flat, Bernie sits at the little table and drinks a cup of coffee, flips through an old journal from her bookcase. It’s one of the perks of being home, having all of her things at hand again. At one point Mallory comes out of the spare room—Cam’s room. She shuffles past Bernie, bleary eyed, hair a tangled mess. She heads straight for the coffee machine, pours herself a mugful and leaves without saying a word. So, Bernie thinks, not a morning person then. A little while later Cam emerges, pours himself some coffee and sits down across from Bernie.

“Morning,” she says.

“Morning.” There’s a pause for a bit, Cam taps his fingers against his mug like he’s contemplating what he’s going to say next and Bernie waits patiently for the words to come. “Thank you,” he says finally. “For being so cool about Mallory.”

“Mmm. I have met transgender people before Cam,” Bernie says, because she’s sure that’s what he means.

“She’s, uh, she’s not out at work yet. It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t? But, really, I couldn’t be more fine with it. Now, however, if you’re also thanking me about being so ‘cool’ with the fact that you’re using my flat as your personal sex dungeon—”

“Oh god please don’t call it that.”

“Then you need to thank Serena because I was  _livid_ when we walked in here and saw you two but she made a very persuasive case for why I shouldn’t just take my key back and also maybe ground you for six weeks.”

“Really?” Cam cocks his head. “And you listened?”

“She was very persuasive,” Bernie says.

“And she changed  _your_ mind?” Cam presses and Bernie wonders at his tone.

“She made some good points that led me to reconsider my original plan.”

“Huh.” He sits back in his chair and purses his lips. “So… You and Serena then?” his tone makes clear what he means and Bernie can’t quite believe she’s having this conversation with another one of her kids.

“Oh god Cam, no. First Lottie, now you. No. We’re friends.”

“Really?”

“Nothing more.”

“She slept in your room.”

“Because yours was taken!”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her. You never looked at dad like that.”

“Cam. Please just lay this to rest. Serena is my friend. My very heterosexual best friend. Please don’t make her uncomfortable with this stuff.” As she pleads with her son, there’s a part of her that wants to lay it all out right then right there. Wants to tell him that he’s right that Charlotte is too, that Bernie looks at Serena like she wants her because she does. She wants Serena more than she’s ever wanted anyone. But she can’t, she can’t tell him that so she does her best to imbue her words with it. To explain to him that she’ll take as much of Serena as she can and she won’t let anything destroy what they have.

“I—” he starts to protest.

“Please.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Cam, by the way, about Mallory…” she wraps her hands around her mug, stares into the dregs of her coffee as she comes up with the words. “I should have told you this a long time ago, you and Charlotte both. But, um, I just want you to know that what I care about for you—for both of you—is that you’re good people who work hard doing what you want to do with your lives. And when it comes to who you’re dating I, um, care that that person is kind, and good to you and I care that you’re good to them. Their gender, or the gender a doctor decided they were when they were born, well, I couldn’t care less about that.”

“I mean, I did sort of figure you wouldn’t care if either of us was gay,” he says with a grin.

“I know, I just—”

“No,” he cuts her off, placing one of his hands over hers, “sorry. I shouldn’t be flippant. I know you… Thank you.”

Bernie just nods and smiles, doesn’t really have anything else to say. There’s a few minutes of silence and then Cam speaks up again.

“I’ll text Lottie later though and let her know you don’t care if she’s gay.”

“Ha, thanks.”

Mallory and Cam leave for work soon after and Serena’s up soon after. Bernie scrounges around for breakfast, finds enough ingredients to make pancakes, and they lounge about the flat for a bit after they’ve eaten, neither too motivated to get a move on with their day.

“My my,” Serena says as she pokes around in Bernie's small sitting room. “You certainly have a lot of Nigella Lawson DVDs.”

“Oh, uh,” Bernie twitches a bit, wonders how to respond. She doesn't want to say that Cameron bought them for her, jokingly called them ‘porn’ after discovering his mother’s rather intense crush on the woman. Doesn't really want to bring the crush up at all.

“Would I find a Team Nigella t-shirt lying around if I were to take a gander in your closet?” Serena's tone is gently teasing.

“Um, well,” Bernie rubs at the back of her neck and silently curses her son’s sense of humour.

“Why Ms. Wolfe! Is that a blush I see on your cheeks?” Serena's smelled blood in the water and Bernie knows she'll never hear the end of it now. “Don't tell me. A crush on lovely Nigella?”

“Er,” Bernie wished that the teasing tone affected her less. Waking up with Serena in her arms is obviously still muddling her up. Stupid hormones. Wasn't menopause supposed to stop all that?

“Hmmm,” Serena picks up one of the DVDs and turns it over in her hands. “So that's your type then? Brunette and curvy and a wizard in the kitchen?”

Bernie legitimately almost chokes right then. How in the hell can Serena say that and not realise that she herself fulfils those criteria perfectly? The worst part is she's right. Brunette, curvy, and a great cook is without a doubt Bernie’s ideal woman. It's just that woman isn't the one on the DVD. It's the one holding it. Serena breaks the silence after a moment with a warm peal of laughter.

“Sorry,” she says. “I should know better than to tease you first thing in the morning.”

“I-it's fine,” Bernie ekes out eventually. More grateful than anything that the conversation is over.

They pack up soon after, drive home, and are greeted on the ward with joyous congratulations for having made it through the first week.


	18. #Berena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a day late, but it needed some serious tlc! I wouldn't want to give you guys a mediocre chapter.
> 
> also the recipe for wacky cake that's mentioned here is my late grandma's and I couldn't not include it as it's one of my favourite things ever.

By Friday of the first week, Serena has essentially gotten used to everyone at work wanting to talk about nothing but Bake Off. She chides her staff to concentrate on the work ahead of them, multiple times, but mostly does her best to shoulder the distraction with grace. Of course, it helps that Bernie’s right there with her.

“I just want to do my job,” she complains to Bernie on a mid-morning coffee break.

“I know,” Bernie says, “but you must have known it would be like this.”

“Well…” she should probably have guessed, yes.

“All I’m saying is that this morning’s speech was especially Nuremberg-y.”

“‘Nuremberg-y’? Surely that’s a bit excessive,” Serena protests. Bernie just sort of grimaces and shrugs in response and Serena thinks that perhaps she has been laying it on a bit too thick. “Are you coming over tomorrow?” she asks then, shamelessly switching topics.

“If you want me to,” Bernie says. “What did you have in mind?”

“Focaccia, to go with supper, for sure. And I was thinking maybe a pie?”

“Works for me. You still need to show me that magical shortcrust of yours.”

“I do, don’t I?” Serena grins, “and I guess we’ll wait to see if inspiration strikes us for anything else.”

“Are you suggesting, Ms. Campbell, that you and I in a kitchen will end up baking more than we originally planned?”

“Perish the thought.” They smile at each other for a moment until Bernie breaks eye contact, looks away, clears her throat and Serena thinks that Bernie’s been doing that more often recently: looking away like that, and she wonders if something’s wrong with her. But surely Bernie would’ve mentioned it if there were.

They do, of course, find more things to bake. While the pie dough chills and the focaccia proves, Bernie and Serena sit down at the kitchen table and start flipping through recipes. Serena brings out the boxes of her mother’s hand-written recipe cards and is unexpectedly touched by the reverence with which Bernie handles them.

“They’re gorgeous Serena,” she says in a low murmur and Serena just beams at her. She knew Bernie would understand how special these cards are, so much more than just recipes. They’re a link to her family, to her past, and Bernie gets it, no explanation needed.

Classic chelsea buns, from one of Adrienne’s recipes, and a red wine bundt cake from one of Serena’s more recently acquired cookbooks join the fray, adding a number of bowls and utensils to the stack already in the sink.

“Is there anything you won’t add booze to?” Bernie asks as she beats butter with both light brown and caster sugars.

“I’m sure there is,” Serena replies. “I just haven’t found it yet.” Bernie guffaws loudly at that, pausing in her efforts of mixing the ingredients together. Serena grins before chiding her, “you know, I do have a stand mixer to do that for you.”

“I know you do,” Bernie says, “I like to do it by hand, though.”

“I know you do.” Serena responds in kind with a smile. She stands back then, watches Bernie work. She’s wearing just a ribbed black vest with her ubiquitous skinny jeans today and Serena can see her muscles work as she stirs the contents of the bowl. She wonders when the hell Bernie finds the time to work out. Arms like that are not gained from baking alone, even if she does do everything by hand. Maybe it’s an army thing, the working out that is, a habit just as ingrained as waking up early or taking aggressive charge of a ward swamped in chaos and trauma. She breaks out of her reverie to grab 3 eggs, cracks them into the bowl one by one as Bernie stirs the mix.

“You’re just doing that so you can tell everyone this was a joint effort, aren’t you?/” Bernie teases.

“Of course. I couldn’t let you have all the credit now could I?”

They both laugh at that, and Bernie gamely continues to stir the mix as Serena adds in vanilla, and then sifts in flour, cocoa powder, bicarb, baking powder, and salt. Last in is yogurt and a healthy dose of shiraz and then it’s ready to be baked.

“Tastes good raw at least,” Bernie says, licking the spoon clean and Serena smiles fondly at her, reaches over to swipe the dollop of batter from the corner of her mouth. She stays like that, with her thumb against Bernie’s cheek, for longer than she intended. She feels almost like she’s hanging in time, unmoving, and she can feel more than hear Bernie’s breath hitch. She shakes herself, moves her hand away, wonders desperately what Bernie must think of her actions, and searches her mind for a possible distraction.

“Will you come watch Biscuit Week here?” she asks then, taking refuge in the safe haven of Bake Off.

“Do you want me to?” Bernie asks in reply, her voice quiet, tinged with something Serena couldn’t name for the life of her.

“Of course I do,” Serena says. She always wants Bernie around, if she’s honest, and considering the fact that they lived through the competition together Serena cannot imagine watching it without her. “Bring Charlotte, too, of course. Cam if he’s ever in town. We’ll have a weekly little viewing party. I’ll make popcorn and everything.”

“Well, I can hardly say no to popcorn, can I?” Bernie says, smiles timidly at Serena and Serena smiles back, how could she not smile back, when she gets that rare beautiful look bestowed upon her. The quiet moment stretches out between them, long and languid until Jason comes thundering into the kitchen to search for goodies during the commercial break of whatever he’s watching.

They concentrate on working on the chelsea buns, filling and shaping them, dimpling and seasoning the focaccia, and cutting up peaches for the pie filling. As they work, mostly silent, perfectly in sync, Serena dwells on the feeling that something has changed between them, even though she can’t put her finger on what it could possibly be. Still, it’s like there’s a current, an underlying… something else between them. She stops her thoughts in her tracks: she’s being ridiculous. She and Bernie are closer than they’ve ever been before. If anything, Serena thinks, this must be some sort of latent anxiety, like everything is going too well and at some point something has to give.

That’s silly though, the rational part of her brain says, and so she pushes away all of those worries and instead concentrates on the here and now, baking with Bernie; standing close enough to her that she can smell her shampoo, their hands sometimes accidentally brushing as they work, moments of eye contact over pots and pans and mixing bowls, shared opinions on how much longer this or that needs in the oven. This right here is perfection, Serena’s decided, the last thing she needs to do is go and overthink it.

Late Tuesday afternoon sees Bernie and Serena in their office, discussing their plans for later on in the evening.

“Go home,” Bernie says, “I’ll stop and pick up the fish and chips after I get Charlotte.”

“That’s...” Serena’s taken aback, she’s never explicitly told Bernie their weekly dinner schedule. “How did you know?”

“What?” Bernie says like it’s absolutely nothing, “it is fish and chips night, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Serena admits, “but I didn’t think I had ever told you that.”

“Oh,” Bernie shrugs, “you mentioned it once.”

“Well, then, if you insist, three—”

“Three regular orders, from the shop down on Ellis, I know.”

“I… Yes.” Serena thinks that if only she could find a man this attentive to her wants and needs she would be a lucky woman indeed. “And a pickled egg for Jason.”

“I wouldn’t dare forget Jason’s pickled egg,” Bernie says with mock solemnity.

“Here,” Serena reaches for her purse to get some cash for her.

“Don’t be ridiculous Serena,” Bernie says in a tone that brooks no dispute. “My treat.” She gathers up her things and heads out of the office and Serena just quietly watches her go, wonders what she did in her life to deserve a friend like this.

She drives home, thanks heaven that Jason and Elinor actually listened to her about cleaning up the downstairs. She putters around, opens a bottle of wine, fluffs the pillows on the sofa three times and wonders why she cares so much, Bernie’s at her house at least once a week at this point, she knows what the place looks like.

Bernie and Charlotte show up soon, thankfully, and she abandons her fussing in favour of greeting them both with warm hugs. Charlotte passes over the bag of food and Serena accepts it with warm thanks.

They eat at the table, unwrapping the newspaper bundles and digging in with gusto. When Jason first moved in, they had tried every single chip shop near the house, he had built a spreadsheet, rating each purchase on such criteria as batter flavour, batter consistency, oiliness, and so on, each scored out of ten. This shop had won by a mile and if Serena has to eat fish and chips every single week, she’s glad that it’s this good.

It’s a less formal feeling than the last time Charlotte had come over, a natural effect of eating dinner out of newspaper, Serena figures, and the conversation around the table is just as lively. Charlotte and Elinor seem to have friends in common now, though Serena’s not sure whether that’s a recent development or just recently discovered, and Serena is admittedly very pleased at how well they’ve been getting along. She feels safer when she knows Ellie and Lottie are together. Not that she doesn’t trust Elinor to make the right decision, she’s proven herself worthy of that trust for sure, but she thinks it’s easier, isn’t it, if the temptation to stray isn’t there in the first place. She dips a chip in tartar sauce and thinks of how many things in her life have changed for the better since she met Bernie.

Once they’re all happily full, the group moves to the sitting room. Serena pours herself and Bernie a glass of shiraz each, keeps the bottle nearby, and they all gather around the telly, turn it on to BBC One, and watch as Mel and Sue announce come on screen.

“It’s biscuit week,” they say with glee and Bernie and Serena both groan.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to make filled biscuits again in my life,” Bernie murmurs to Serena, they’re sitting close together on the sofa, sharing the three-seater with Ellie and Charlotte as Jason takes his usual armchair. Bernie has her arm up around Serena’s shoulders, to make for a little more room, and Serena feels perfectly comfortable here, surrounded by family and pressed into Bernie’s side.

“Agreed,” she says back just as quietly, “I’d much rather just pick up a pack of bourbons whenever I have a craving.”

Jason shushes them then, and they turn their attention back to watching Ric’s interview about his excitement for the upcoming day. They all laugh at Sue trying to sneak one of Bernie’s biscuits and Bernie slapping her hand away, and Serena’s glad she gets to see some of Bernie’s moments in making her biscuit sandwiches: she had been much too busy with her own bakes to worry what anyone else was doing.

There’s a good number of shots of her hurriedly icing her little lavender biscuits, and once the challenge is over Serena can see where she and Bernie were trading compliments over their work, even though the sound wasn’t carried through to the audience.

“I still think yours looked the best,” Bernie says quietly and Serena just smiles, squeezes her knee in response.

Their interviews are next, and Serena can already tell that Sacha is getting a bit more screen time than anyone else, a nice touch by the post-production team considering this is his last week. She and Bernie groan their way through the technical. It’s so hard not to feel she should’ve done better when on the outside looking in. But she remembers the stress and the rush of the challenge all too well.

“Definitely a sociopath,” she whispers to Bernie when the camera pans to Paul’s face as he takes an all too gleeful look at the technical bakes on offer.

“Definitely,” Bernie agrees.

Then it’s onto the showstopper. It’s weird, Serena feels, to watch it like this. Everything seems so simple, so short. There’s only the briefest taste of what it actually felt to be there, in the tent, sweating and worrying, and just trying to do your best. The biscuit structure challenge is fun to watch though, and Serena actually gasps out loud when Sacha’s lighthouse collapses on screen.

It’s fun to watch it all with the kids, too, and they point out multiple different things, asking for the behind-the-scenes stories during the commercial breaks. Bernie and Serena are more than happy to share what titbits they can, and point out the scenes that were obviously filmed after the actual challenge was over. When the episode is done, they hang out in the sitting room, all of them, Serena shares about pieces of pie left over from her and Bernie’s weekend of baking, and they re-hash all of their favourite moments.

“Why won’t you just tell us who goes when?” Elinor asks plaintively, “I mean, it’s not like we don’t already know how it ends.”

“Oh come now,” Serena replies, “that rather takes all the fun out of it, doesn’t it?”

“I guess,” Ellie says, rolls her eyes, but it’s a bit more playful, less disdainful than usual.

The kids leave them alone, then, leave Serena and Bernie on the sofa, but even with the amount of space that opens up beside her, Serena makes no effort to extricate herself from Bernie’s embrace. They’re silent for quite a while, just sitting together and enjoying the closeness. Serena hears Bernie take a big breath a couple of times, thinks she might be about to say something, but for a long while she doesn’t.

“I,” she begins finally. “That mosque that I made, with the biscuits?”

“Mmhmm?” Serena encourages, traces patterns on Bernie’s knee with her fingers and doesn’t look at her, knows Bernie will be more comfortable without the eye contact.

“It was the first place I went… with Alex. Um, it was the first time…” she trails off but Serena doesn’t try to rush her, knows that for Bernie words do not always come easily. “That was when I knew that I was, um, a lesbian or whatever.”

“Mmm,” Serena hums, leans in a little closer, rests her head on Bernie’s chest. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“What?” Bernie says, and she sounds completely taken aback, like the thought had never occurred to her.

“You are so very brave, Bernie. Don’t you see that?”

“Not really,” Bernie says. “I’d say selfish, maybe, more than anything.”

“Selfish?” Serena protests, how can Bernie possibly think this? “For admitting your true nature?”

“For destroying my family, more like,” Bernie says, barely above a whisper.

“Hmph,” Serena snorts. “I’d say your family’s doing just fine. And I’ll be here to remind you how brave you are every day until you believe it, how’s that?”

Bernie doesn’t say anything, just makes a sort of hummed noise in the back of her throat and rests her cheek on the top of Serena’s head. Serena understands the unspoken thanks, leans in closer in response and listens to thump of Bernie’s heartbeat, no words needed here.

* * *

Serena makes it very clear to Bernie that Tuesday nights at her place are to be a regular thing now, so the next week goes much the same: work, fish and chips, and Bake Off. She sits in the corner of the sofa again, and she’s grateful for Ellie and Charlotte’s presence, pushing Serena close into her side. She should feel bad for how much she enjoys that: the feeling of Serena pressed into her, she knows she should. But, well, maybe she’s not a good enough person to feel bad over it. Maybe the feeling of Serena in her arms is too wondrous for her to ever feel bad about it. It’s Bread Week, and Bernie’s especially curious to see what it will be like to watch herself win Star Baker. They didn’t cut the flour brushing incident, that surprises Bernie. She hadn’t even known that a camera was close enough to capture everything and she blushes at the knowledge that half the country is watching Serena brush flour off of her arse. It’s odd, as well, to watch herself brush that bit of flour off of Serena’s cheek. Had she already begun to have feelings for Serena here? Or was this still in the realm of just friendship? Bernie honestly has no idea.

It’s odd to watch herself through each challenge, watch as she gets the handshake from Paul, does well in the technical, and shrugs and blushes her way through her interviews. She wishes she weren’t so awkward about it all.

“This is the first morning you brought me coffee,” Serena says quietly into her chest.

“Yeah,” Bernie agrees, “I guess you’re right.” Like she doesn’t remember every second of it in perfect detail.

When the episode ends, Jason and Elinor and Charlotte hang around, all on their phones, checking on the general internet response. Bernie goes into the kitchen with Serena, puts the kettle on for tea while Serena cuts generous slices of cake for everyone.

“Well I’m not going to tell them,” she hears Elinor say as she and Serena step back into the sitting room.

“Tell us what?” Serena asks as she sets down the cake, and the girls both look up at them with wide eyes.

“Uh,” Charlotte says, glancing down at her phone. Bernie and Serena take their seats again, turning to watch the girls.

“All you,” Elinor tells Lottie and Bernie wonders what in the hell could be happening.

“Um, well,” Charlotte begins, grimacing, “you guys are trending.”

The concept has been explained to Bernie, the most popular hashtags going on a list for everyone to see, but she doesn’t know why it would have caused such distress.

“You mean Bake Off?” she asks, “I thought that was normal?”

“Uh, no,” Charlotte says, still looking incredibly uncomfortable, “I mean you two specifically. It seems, um, it seems that people ship you.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Serena says.

“It means that they think you should be in a relationship,” Jason supplies helpfully, “or that you are already. That’s not explicitly clear. You do have a portmanteau though.”

#Berena is, apparently, what everyone has been tweeting. Serena pulls out her phone and scrolls through the comments, Bernie looking over her shoulder with interest and an ever-growing sense of dread. Had she really been that obvious about her feelings? Are they written so plainly on her face that every person watching can tell. She thinks back to watching herself wipe flour off of Serena’s cheek and the answer is obvious: yes. Bernie spent the entire competition gazing at Serena with big yearning puppy dog eyes—unbeknownst to her at the time—and everybody else can see it too.

“@stargate_barbie tweeted ‘honestly they might as well have just fucked against the little counter’ Serena reads out with glee. “Ooh and look at this one from @dumpstnerd” she grins up at Bernie, “apparently we're the gayest thing on telly.”

Bernie does her best to smile back, catches Charlotte’s eyes over Serena’s head and gets a sympathetic look from her. And then Serena's demanding her attention again, this time for a selfie, presses her face up against Bernie’s for the photo and Bernie gamely goes along. Serena tweets it out immediately “watching #gbbo with one of my favourite people in the whole world #berena,’ and Bernie gnaws at her lower lip in worry.

“Are you sure you should encourage them?” she asks, but Serena just laughs.

“Oh come on Bernie. It's fun!” She's so happy about it, obviously enjoying herself so much that Bernie can't bring herself to put a stop it. She just shrugs, tries for a smile, and hopes that this blows over soon.

It doesn't. Bernie gets used to Tuesday night's being greeted by a deluge of tweets about how gay ‘berena’ are and considers picking up a religion just so she can pray to someone that Serena never finds out how close to the truth this all is. People bring it up in real life, too. Not quite as blatantly, mind, but Bernie notices the looks from their colleagues, and more than one patient gushes to their friends at being on the same ward as berena.

On twitter, Serena is the worst of them all. She joins in the tweeting fray every week, replying to some, liking many, and reading out her favourites to Bernie and everyone else.

“You’re very popular, you know,” Serena says to Bernie during Pies & Tarts Week. “Ooh look at this! @Illuminatilizrd said ‘get you a girl who looks at you the way Bernie looks at Serena’.”

Bernie chokes a little at that. She doesn’t need anyone pulling Serena’s attention to the way that she looks at her. Week after week her little crush is getting more and more obvious and Bernie cannot believe how obvious she was being the whole time.

The day after Pastry Week airs, she gets a twitter notification from Serena, mentioning her in an article and she clicks on the link with dread in her heart.

‘It's Official:’ the article from Buzzfeed reads ‘Bake Off is British lesbian culture now.’

‘Between the ever lovable Sue Perkins, #berena, and Bernie Wolfe striding about like the baking goddess of our dreams, you can rest assured that the tellies of every lesbian in Britain are tuned to BBC One every Tuesday night.’

It goes on, calls Bernie ‘futch’ more than once and Bernie's not sure she wants to know what that means. It's accompanied by multiple gifs, including of course one of her flexing her biceps for Sue.

Bernie closes the webpage and shakes her head, being one of Britain’s foremost lesbians was certainly not what she'd expected when she'd gone on the show. It worries her, a little, the part of her that kept her identity hidden for so long, but overall the response has been positive, and the tweets Bernie’s seen from women young and old thanking her for being brave enough to be out on national telly have more than made up for any discomfort she feels.

And she does her best to communicate back to her fans—even though her brain still stutters at the thought that she has fans—to make an effort on social media. She likes instagram, she decides. Doesn’t ever bother with the whole tagging system but she likes posting photos of things she’s baked. She doesn’t really know what to do with all the comments from people, only ever really replies when Serena leaves a comment. She posts a photo she took in Bath too, an early morning shot of the sun rising through the streets. She had taken it originally to show Serena but that had been the morning Serena answered the door in nothing but a towel and anything of photos and sunsets had immediately fled from Bernie’s mind.

It's not the everyone knowing she's a lesbian that bothers her at the end of the day, but everyone knowing how desperately she's in love with Serena she could do without. Serena is so blissfully unaware that she thinks it all a good joke. And that smarts more than Bernie expected. It's not that she thought she had a chance with Serena—of course she doesn't, Serena's straight and Bernie knows that—but still there had been moments here or there that had let hope rise unbidden in Bernie’s heart: the hope that perhaps there is something more on Serena’s side as well. Those hopes have been well and truly dashed now, there's no way Serena would be so cheerfully joking about this whole berena thing if she thought there were even a glimmer of truth to it.

So Bernie keeps her mouth shut and maintains the status quo as much as she can. At work she laughs off any suggestions from colleagues that she and Serena are more than friends, concentrates instead on the fact that the trauma bay is running better than ever and doesn't think too hard about the expiration date on her time there. On the weekends she bakes with Serena in the same easy companionship they've always had in the kitchen, and on Tuesday evenings she and Charlotte come by and watch with Serena and Elinor and Jason and when the cameras have caught yet another glance between the two of them and Serena jokes that ‘the internet will have a field day with that one’, Bernie just hopes her laugh sounds believable.

There's a lot else to concentrate on during the episodes at least, so many things that Bernie completely missed because she was concentrating on her own work, and during dessert week she watches Serena proudly show off her wacky cake recipe.

“Wacky cake, for wacky peoples,” Sue reads from the card, turning it towards the camera to show off the silly little stick figure smiling out from the top of the card.

“It was my grandmother’s recipe,” the Serena on the telly explains with a smile.

“‘Make 3 holes (with your feet),’” Sue reads out joyously. “‘Into one put 1 tsp vanilla, into another put 1 T vinegar and into another put 5 T of oil (regular car oil will do). Over all, pour 1 cup of water (pumped from the local well). Mix well in pan. Bake 30 minutes in 350F oven. Cut and serve from the pan.’ That,” she says to Serena, “is a smashing recipe.”

“I love that,” Bernie murmurs into Serena’s ear and Serena’s smile in response makes Bernie feel like she’s lit up with golden warmth from head to toe.

The weekend between Dessert Week and Chocolate Week, Cameron comes up to visit. Bernie takes him and Charlotte out for dinner on Friday night and he regales them both with stories of his newfound notoriety at work and with his friends.

“I keep getting pushed to tell everyone the end results,” he says with a grin. “You would not believe the betting market that exists for Bake Off. Don't worry,” he continues at Bernie’s look, “I haven't been misusing my advance info, I promise.”

He and Charlotte both stay with her that night, and she's very happy indeed to wake up early and make them French toast and eggs and listen to more stories about hospital and school respectively.

They both disappear before noon, apparently to grab Elinor and Jason and head off to some sort of all-day pub quiz—the cafe on Langley hosts a sober one once a month—leaving Bernie to putter around her flat on her own. She makes a half-hearted effort at cleaning the loo that doesn't get much further than wiping down the sink and squirting some cleaner into the toilet bowl. Then she sits at the kitchen table with the latest Lancet, flips through and doesn't concentrate as much as she needs to actually absorb any of the information.

Her phone rings and she picks it up, smiles when she sees that it's Serena.

“Hullo,” she says warmly.

“Come over?” Serena says immediately, and her tone seems off.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Just having a day,” Serena replies. “Could really do with some company.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll come over right away if you’d like.”

“Please,” Serena’s tone is filled with relief. “Oh and Bernie?”

“Yes?”

“Do me a favour and wear pyjamas or something? Jogging bottoms maybe? I really don’t feel like getting up and putting proper trousers on but I hate feeling underdressed.”

“Whatever you want,” Bernie agrees and ends the call.

She digs through her clothes to find an old pair of flannel pyjama bottoms, throws them on with a threadbare RAMC t-shirt that she’s sure Serena would love to mock her for in any other circumstance. She’s almost out the door when she turns back around and grabs the pie she’d made a couple days earlier with still about half of it left on the plate. Strawberry rhubarb pie, Bernie thinks, can cure about any ailment.

When she gets to Serena’s house, Bernie lets herself in as she always does.

“I have pie!” she calls out as she toes off her shoes. She walks through to the kitchen, sets the pie down on the counter, continues through to the sitting room. There’s Serena on the sofa, wearing grey jogging bottoms and a men’s shirt that must be about four sizes too big for her. It's the most casual Bernie thinks she's ever seen her. Well, save for the time they slept together. The time they shared her room in her apartment in London. Obviously they didn't  _sleep together_ —that's the moment at which Bernie has to just will her mind into silence because why would she be standing here justifying that to herself? She's perfectly aware of what did and didn't happen that night and, oh… She gives her head a good shake, steps forward to wear Serena can see her.

“Bernie!” Serena says with a smile.

“Hi Serena,” she replies. “Bad day?” She takes a seat at Serena’s urging, taking the corner of the sofa and placing her arm along the back just in case Serena wants to sit right up against her. She moves into Bernie’s side almost immediately, tugs Bernie’s arm around her, and lays her head on Bernie’s chest.

“Do you ever have those days where everything just seems weird and uncomfortable? Like your whole body’s sad for no reason?”

“Definitely,” Bernie says. She’s a bit surprised that Serena does though. “You’re not… I mean. Should I be worried?”

“No, trust me, I’ve fought depression before I know what that feels like this is just…”

“One of those days?” Bernie offers.

“Mmm, exactly.” They’re silent for a bit, and Bernie just basks in the feeling of Serena and silence. “Our kids are all hanging out today,” Serena says after a while. “I was glad to hear that.”

“Oh yes. Apparently today’s event is quite a big deal. They had to qualify for it and everything,” Bernie can hear the pride in her tone, knows it’s matched by Serena.

“I was happy enough to hear that they’d managed to find a sober pub quiz,” Serena says. “All the joy of trivia night without either Jason or Elinor having to be uncomfortably surrounded by drunk people.”

“It’s nice,” Bernie agrees. “You know, I don't know I would've guessed for Elinor to be the pub quiz type.”

“Oh, well, apparently her presence is of the utmost importance, according to Jason at least. It seems that while he and your brood have a nice grasp on science and literature and the like Ellie is far and above the expert on pop culture.”

They turn the telly on, after a while, let their brains numb in front of a reality show about people looking to buy a new house. It’s absurd, of course, all of these couples and their absurdly high budgets and equally improbable careers. They walk into a 3.5 million pound home in London and in unison Serena and Bernie go

“Kitchen’s too small.”

They turn to each other and laugh. But really, who’s spending that much money on a house when their kitchen looks like that? Not anyone who ever expects to cook a proper meal, Bernie thinks.

They spend the afternoon like that, warm and cosy and perfect. When she hears Serena’s stomach rumble, Bernie leaves her on the sofa and heads into the kitchen to find something for dinner. She feels at home in Serena’s kitchen now. She knows where to find anything she needs, moves around with the easy grace of someone who doesn’t have to think twice about which cupboard houses the plates.

She’ll miss this, she thinks, the thought rising without warning. Bernie does her best not to think about the fact that she’ll be leaving soon. Her locum position really can’t be extended any longer, she needs to move on. She feels a little lump in her throat at the thought and chides herself for it. She needs to concentrate on the here and now: on the fact that Serena needs her. She can get all mopey and morose another time, preferably when she’s all alone.

They eat dinner—roasted asparagus topped with a poached egg and a sort of cheater hollandaise—in the sitting room and Serena swears Bernie to silence that she allowed this.

“Eating in front of the telly is a strict no-no in this house,” she says with a little smile.

“I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone,” Bernie promises.

They move on to watching a movie, 8 Femmes, as per Serena’s request and Bernie’s happy to go along with whatever she wants. Serena grabs a throw from the back of the sofa, spreads it over them, and Bernie drifts off without realising it—too warm and happy to keep her eyes from sliding shut.

“Do you think they know how cute they are?”

At the hushed tones Bernie's eyes flutter open. She must've fallen asleep at some point. The telly is still on in the background and all four of the kids: Cameron, Charlotte, Elinor, and Jason are standing in the doorway to the sitting room watching her. She looks down and sees Serena still asleep, a warm lump against Bernie's chest

“Should we wake her?” Jason asks at his normal volume and the other three turn to shush him.

“It's fine,” Bernie whispers. “I'll take care of it.”

She stands slowly, gently extricating herself from Serena's grasp and then lifts her into her arms, as careful as can be.

“That can't be good for your back,” Cam whispers but Bernie just shakes her head. She carries Serena up the stairs, deposits her gently in her bed. She thinks she's done it: gotten Serena situated nicely without waking her. And then Serena turns around and opens her eyes a crack.

“Bernie?”

“Shh. You fell asleep on the couch. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm.” Serena reaches out and grabs her arm, tugs Bernie closer in to her. “Stay.”

“Oh I don’t—”

“I'm cold.”

“I'll get you another blanket.”

“Mm-mm” a clear noise of dissent. “You.”

It's hard to say no to a sleepy insistent Serena Campbell. In fact, for Bernie it may just be impossible. She's tired too, sleep still fogging her brain, and she really can’t think of a good reason not to. So she pulls her bra off under her shirt, tosses it aside, and crawls under the covers, lets Serena pull her close around her. She’s asleep almost immediately, cosy darkness swamping over her, and she misses the creak of the door opening, misses the look her children share at the sight of them.

* * *

The next morning Serena wakes up with the exquisite feeling of being in someone’s arms. She burrows deeper into the hold, smiling at the feeling, before realising that she isn’t dating anyone at the moment and she cannot think who she could possibly have invited into her bed. She opens her eyes, turns around and sees messy blonde hair first of all.

It’s Bernie. A sense of relief washes over Serena and the night before comes back to her in fits and starts, the feeling of being carried up to bed, her insistence that Bernie stay with her.

She blushes a little, she truly hopes Bernie doesn’t mind this. The last thing Serena wants is to make her uncomfortable. She lays there for a while, with the golden cast of sunshine washing over them, just looking at Bernie.

She could kiss her, she thinks, so easily. Could just lean forward and do it. She laughs at herself, her sleepy pre-coffee brain certainly does come up with the strangest ideas. And just as she realises that lying there staring at Bernie might be considered a tad creepy, Bernie cracks open her eyes.

“Morning soldier,” Serena says, falling back on that gentle teasing tone.

“Mmm,” Bernie says. “Good morning.”

They make their way downstairs, and are greeted by the sight of all four of what Serena know thinks of as ‘the kids’: Cameron, Charlotte, Elinor, and Jason. They’re in the midst of making breakfast, full english by the look of it, and Serena’s distracted from the fact that it looks like a bomb’s gone off in her kitchen by how much fun they all seem to be having.

She makes a beeline for the coffee machine, pours herself a mugful as she hears Cameron explain to Bernie.

“When it became apparent that you’d be crashing here,” he says, “Lottie and I figured we might as well make it a sleepover.”

“Plus we didn’t know where you’d put your car keys,” Charlotte adds in, “and so we thought if we waited until this morning we could get a ride.”

Bernie laughs at that, makes eye contact with Serena from across the room and Serena grins widely at her. This, Serena thinks, is true joy. She and Bernie and the kids, cooking, and laughing, and pausing to sing along as a really good song comes on over the radio. Serena’s absolutely sure in that moment that life doesn’t get better than this.


	19. Everything Ends Eventually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, looks like next chapter is gonna be the last. I'll try to get it up soon, but school is low-key kicking my ass and it's mostly unwritten so please bear with me if it takes a bit longer than usual.  
> (and it's 11:57 where i live so this is technically still Monday. i made it.)

It’s the day of Chocolate Week and Bernie’s still in theatre when the end of the day comes, so Serena heads over to touch base.

“Need a hand?” she offers, but Bernie shakes her head.

“No I’m fine,” she says. “Anyway, no reason to chance you missing the ep as well.”

“Do you not think you’ll make it in time?” Serena asks, admittedly disappointed—she had so hoped to watch this week’s triumph with Bernie by her side.

“I hope to,” Bernie says with a shrug, “as long as there aren’t too many distractions.” That’s accompanied by what Serena’s sure is a wicked grin under Bernie’s scrub mask, displayed only by the glint in her eyes.

“Message received, Ms. Wolfe,” she says, and turns to go.

“Oh, Serena!” Bernie calls out before she’s left the room.

“Yes?” Serena turns.

“Can you let Charlotte know I won’t be able to come get her?”

“Of course,” Serena had thought of that already. “I’ll text Ellie to let her know and see if she still needs a lift.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course. Any time.” Serena leaves the theatre, texts Elinor as promised, and amasses her things.

Charlotte, it turns out, is able to make her own way over to Serena’s house, and by the time Serena’s gotten to the chip shop and then made it home, she and Elinor are both already there. They’re sitting on the kitchen counters drinking the special fizzy drinks Serena had bought for the occasion and chatting brightly.

“Hello dears,” Serena greets them happily. She pats their knees and kisses their cheeks and doesn’t think twice about how she’s come to greet Charlotte just like her own daughter. “Anything exciting happen today?”

Charlotte regales her happily with a tale of classmate who had said something especially moronic in one of her classes and Elinor—these days less and less resistant to Serena’s attempts at small talk—shares a short story about her boss being annoying. Serena pours herself a glass of wine and shares a quick story of her own, a particularly excitable patient who had recognised her and Bernie from Bake Off and preceded to have something bordering on a complete and utter meltdown.

“Go on,” Charlotte says after Serena’s done, nodding her head at Elinor, “ask her.”

“Oh,” Elinor says, “right. Uh, Mum, me and Charlotte were thinking we could all go down to London this weekend? Shopping, lattes, a sort of girl’s day out or whatever?” she doesn’t quite roll her eyes at the last part and Serena can’t believe her ears. Her daughter suggesting of her own volition that they spend a large amount of uninterrupted time together and not acting like it’s complete torture? Serena fights down the triumphant smile trying to take over her face and works at just a slightly bemused quirk of her lips instead.

“That sounds lovely!” she says. Wonders if this is in part because Charlotte and Elinor know what’s happening in the coming week of Bake Off and decides that if it is she’ll accept it gladly. Elinor taking care to worry about that is a boon Serena never expected. “Were you thinking just you two and Bernie and me?”

“Oh,” Charlotte’s quick to interject, sliding off the counter and starting to set the table for supper. “No, not mum. She absolutely loathes shopping, especially for clothes. She wouldn’t say yes in a million years.”

“She would,” Elinor disagrees, joining Charlotte in her work. “If Mum asks her.”

There’s a look, then, that passes between the girls, a look that Serena knows is meaningful but can’t for the life of her decipher and then Charlotte shrugs.

“Yeah,” she says, “I guess it’s worth a try.”

Serena wonders at that as she goes to call Jason for supper. Perhaps Charlotte is over-stating it, she thinks, there’s no way Bernie loathes shopping that much, is there? No matter, really, she decides. She’ll ask her and she’ll either say yes or no. Not much use agonising over it. But she does so hope that Bernie says yes. It would be such fun for the four of them to go.

“Okay,” Bernie agrees when Serena poses the question. It’s during the first commercial break of Bake Off, Bernie having snuck in at the last minute.

“Really?” Serena has to double check, the last thing she wants is to push Bernie into doing something she’ll hate.

“If you want me there, of course,” Bernie replies simply and Serena beams.

They turn their attention back to the episode at hand, then. Serena’s happy to see her chocolate cake go over well—that recipe’s always been a winner—and murmurs sympathetically through Bernie’s less than ideal judging.

“What do you think the chances are they just skip over the technical this week?” she whispers to Bernie.

“Please!” Bernie replies. “You did more than fine, god, it’s me that should be complaining.”

“Evil sadistic bastards those judges,” Serena complains.

“Mmm,” Bernie hums in agreement and uses the arm across her shoulders to tug Serena all that bit closer.

Serena does truly enjoy getting to watch all the competitors make their chocolate centrepieces, is especially interested in how Raf managed his disappearing chocolate egg.

“I remember them being so much bigger,” she says to Bernie during the judging and Bernie just laughs.

The mood in the room as Serena’s announced Star Baker for the second week in a row is exultant and Serena feels happy. Simply and wonderfully happy.

“You know,” she says to Bernie after the kids have all dispersed. “I was thinking we should invite Evie Fletcher to come on our shopping trip.”

“Really?” Bernie tilts her head to the side to look at her.

“Don’t you remember what it was like when you were that age Bernie? Wanting so badly to be considered a young woman, but still so much a child?”

“Not really,” Bernie admits with a shrug. “But if you want her to be there then of course we can ask for her to come along.”

“I think it’ll be good for her to have a girl’s day out. Not that her dads aren’t wonderful, but still. Female companionship is important, especially at that age.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Bernie agrees and Serena smiles in triumph. She settles back against Bernie’s chest and sips at her wine, already beginning to plan it out in her mind.

It is perfect, of course. Saturday comes crisp and clear, and Bernie and Charlotte and Elinor and Serena leave Holby just before seven to get a good head start on the day. They pick up Evie at the arranged time and, unsurprisingly, she’s absolutely brimming with excitement. They spend their whole day strolling through Westfield London, going into shop after shop. Bernie is generally happy to stand back and hold the bags of previous purchases, but Serena’s able to wheedle her into trying a few things and even into purchasing a smartly cut black blouse that looks incredible on her—as Serena knew it would.

They are recognised a few times, which doesn’t surprise Serena in the slightest, people coming up and asking if they’re really Bernie and Serena from Bake Off and she and Bernie gamely smile and nod and take a few selfies with those brave enough to ask. Serena thinks there are many more who do a double take, she can see them watching them out of the corner of her eye but it doesn’t bother her and Bernie doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Fame sits a bit more unevenly on Bernie’s shoulders than Serena’s, truth be told, and Serena can’t quite believe Bernie’s shock that she has fans in the first place. Still, she’s kind and does her best to engage with them, even if she’s more reticent than Serena. And Serena’s happy, too, that she doesn’t push herself too hard. Serena wouldn’t be able to abide Bernie making herself miserable for the sake of other people.

Elinor and Charlotte both appear to be having a great time, admittedly probably helped by the number of presents she and Bernie have bought for them throughout the day but Serena thinks that the chance to spoil their kids is one of the joys of motherhood. And she’s so proud of the hard work Elinor’s done over the past year, surely she deserves a new purse and a couple new outfits.

And Evie, sweet little Evie, seems to blossom that day. She has a keener eye for fashion than Serena expected, and after an hour or so of timidity is more than happy to share her opinions. She, too, is the recipient of a couple of gifts throughout the day.

“Raf’s gonna kill us,” Serena says to Bernie at one point as they walk along a few paces behind the girls.

“We’ll just stop and get something for the others before we bring her home,” Bernie says like it's the obvious answer.

“I wasn’t really talking about the fairness factor,” Serena rebuts but Bernie just shrugs and gives her one of those millisecond smiles and Serena finds herself bursting out into laughter in the middle of the wide walkway. Still, she thinks of the Fletchlings almost as nieces and nephews at this point, an extension of family for sure, and surely they’re all well-deserving of a little treat. She also finds it undeniably hilarious that while she herself is guilty of buying the odd present here or there, Bernie is undeniably the worst culprit. When Serena tries to protest that, really, Bernie shouldn’t be buying Elinor anything, Bernie’s face goes impassive and she pretends that she can’t hear Serena until after the transaction is over.

“She likes buying presents,” Charlotte tells Serena with a shrug. “I know, it’s not really what you’d expect from her, and she absolutely panics at Christmas and birthdays, buys the most atrocious things whenever she feels she’s supposed to give you something. Can’t wrap worth a damn either. But the rest of the year, when it comes to little impulse gifts she’s an absolute menace.”

It’s a side of Bernie Serena’s never seen before, and she finds it absolutely adorable. She thinks that she, herself, has escaped Bernie’s gift-giving mania until near the end of the day. The girls, filled with the boundless energy of youth, are off looking at shoes, and Bernie and Serena are taking a load off in a little cafe, enjoying piping hot lattes and sharing a pain au chocolat—and the knowing smile that coffee and pastries always evokes between them—the numerous bags of the day’s efforts amassed about them.

“Oh, here,” Bernie says, sliding a little jewellery box across the table and then very studiously examining the pastry instead of looking at her.

“What’s this?” Serena asks and Bernie shrugs, still not making eye contact.

“Nothing,” she says.

Serena opens the box to find that it is in absolutely no way ‘nothing’. Nestled in the little box is a pair of earrings, teardrop garnets set in rose gold that Serena had been admiring in one of their many stops.

“Oh my god, they’re beauti—Bernie I can’t accept these.”

“Why not?” Bernie asks, finally looking up. “You liked them, didn’t you?”

“I  _love_ them but they’re far too expensive,” Serena’s still just completely flabbergasted. Charlotte was completely correct: Bernie is a menace.

“You don’t know how much they cost,” Bernie rebuts.

“Because the shop was so posh they don’t display the pricing!”

“Well, I threw out the receipt,” Bernie says. Serena can’t tell if she’s lying. “So either you keep them and wear them or they sit in my sock drawer for twenty years and however much money I spent on them goes to waste.”

“You’re evil,” Serena tells her. Then, begrudgingly, “thank you. I love them.”

Bernie just gives her another shrug, and one of those gorgeous timid little smiles, and Serena couldn’t have stayed angry at her if she’d tried.

They get back to Holby late that night and Serena’s absolutely exhausted. She lies down in bed expecting to fall asleep immediately. Instead, she lies awake for a long time, staring up at the dark ceiling as one thought rolls through her mind again and again: I don’t want her to leave.

* * *

Watching Patisserie Week is harder than Bernie had accepted. She and Serena have laid to rest any issues over the elimination, but still it’s hard to sit through the episode and see Serena perform consistently poorly. She hadn’t paid attention to the judging on the showstopper when she’d lived through it, and watching it played out on the telly Paul and Mary seem exceptionally harsh. Bernie hadn’t realised that she was actually the only one with a successful judging that week: Jac, Raf, and Serena all got eviscerated.

She keeps an eye on herself as the week’s results are announced and she can see herself clap a hand over her mouth when Sue announces that Serena’s leaving.

“What’s that about?” Serena asks, nudging her side, obviously having noticed Bernie’s actions.

“Oh,” Bernie feels her cheeks colour, “I sort of almost shouted out ‘no’.”

“Awww,” Serena leans in closer, grabs her hand and squeezes it, “that’s so sweet.”

Bernie mumbles out something approximating a response and goes quiet.

The cameras didn’t miss Bernie and Serena’s parting hug, or Serena’s instructions to Bernie to ‘win it for her’ and Bernie wonders what people will make of that little directive. Fears she already knows.

The next day at work everyone crowds around Serena to tell them how sad they were to see her leave and Serena smiles and jokes and deals with it perfectly. Bernie expected nothing else. Their onscreen parting interaction caused a small excess of #Berena fury, apparently, and halfway through the day Bernie gets a twitter notification. It’s Serena, of course, making sure that Bernie sees an article titled ‘20 Times We Could’ve Sworn #Berena Was Real’ and Bernie just rolls her eyes. That whole thing is one reason she’ll be very happy when the shows over and done with.

The weekend involves another trip to London. This time, however, Bernie’s going alone, for a pre-finale photoshoot for Radio Times.

“They tried to get Jac and I to do makeovers for it,” she tells Serena on Friday. “You know, new hair new clothes, the whole bit.”

“Your hair looks unchanged,” Serena notes. “As unbrushed and bright blonde as ever.”

“Be nice,” Bernie retorts. “I let Jac make our collective opinion on the idea known.”

“I notice you didn’t mention Raf as being part of the proposed makeovers,” Serena says. “A bit sexist isn’t that?”

“You know,” Bernie tells her, “I’m fairly certain Jac made that exact same point.”

She’s glad to have Jac and Raf with her for the whole rigmarole. She’s not comfortable with the idea of someone taking photos of her; putting up with Serena’s love of the selfie is bad enough. Serena, Bernie knows, would have adored this, would have been every photographer’s dream. She wishes once more that their roles were reversed.

The day starts off innocuously enough: Bake Off made Bernie comfortable with having a stranger do her hair and makeup, and she learned on the show to be clear enough about what she does and doesn’t want done to her. She refuses any sort of fancy up-do, and manages to convince the makeup artist not to go too overboard. It’s still more makeup that Bernie can remember wearing in… gosh forever, perhaps. But she doesn’t look too bad all things considered. They dress her in high-waisted black trousers and a silky white blouse and Bernie reluctantly acquiesces to black stilettos as well. Jac’s been put in a tight grey dress with shoes much like Bernie’s and Raf—in black shirt and grey trousers—complains jovially about being dwarfed by both of them. All together Bernie thinks they’re sort of teetering between office-appropriate and properly fashionable, but she figures that whoever decided their outfits knew what they were doing.

It’s photos first: starting with them eating some cupcakes, or pretending to at least, and then moving on to some shots of them mock baking, mostly just holding spoons and bowls and looking not at all like they might actually be doing anything with them. It’s fun though, with Jac and Raf there. The interviews come after, and Bernie wishes for all her might that they could’ve been done with just the photoshoot.

The photos are to be released, she learns, in a magazine spread the week after the final episode airs. The interviews are held one on one with the author of the piece and will of course be kept in the utmost secrecy lest anyone find out early who the winner is. She’s asked a number of questions ranging from her childhood to her military career to her children before they move onto the meat of the matter: Bake Off. Bernie explains her application process, the promise she made to her kids, and her shock at making it into the competition at all.

“The thing is,” she says once they get to the subject of her having won the competition, “every single baker in that tent could’ve won it. They were all phenomenal bakers and I think for many of them it was more fluke than anything—a run of bad luck—that led to them going home.”

“Like Serena Campbell, for instance,” the interviewer offers.

“Yeah, I mean, Serena’s amazing,” she stops, bites her lip. “She’s a great baker,” she finishes finally.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” the interviewer continues and Bernie’s sure they’ve just been waiting for an opportunity to bring this up, “that there is quite a strong faction of fans that think you and Serena are in a relationship.”

Bernie nods.

“Is there any truth to those hypotheses?” they ask.

“No,” Bernie says simply, “Serena and I are very good friends.” She does her best to make her tone decisive enough that the line of questioning ends there, the last thing she needs is to somehow betray her true feelings to this reporter and see it splashed across newsstands the next week.

Thankfully, she’s successful, and beyond a couple of fluff questions about their ongoing friendship the topic is dropped.

Bernie gets home that night exhausted and falls asleep immediately. The next day she goes to Serena’s—ostensibly to help her bake a cake for Lou’s brother—but mostly because Serena wants to know every detail of the photoshoot.

Bernie retells the day as best as she can while Serena presses for more specifics here and there.

“I don’t know,” Bernie says after the fifth question about her outfit, “you’ll see it when the magazine comes out.”

“But I want to know!” Serena protests.

“Well then text Jac. Or Raf. Cause I’ve explained it as best as I possibly can.”

Serena sighs, shakes her head, but her smile is fond and Bernie knows there’s no rancour there. She knows Bernie by now. Too well, perhaps.

Cam takes a couple of days off for the finale, comes up to Holby on the Monday evening with Mallory and Bernie’s more than happy to hear that the label of girlfriend has now been officially bestowed.

So on Tuesday, it’s the whole clan together at Serena’s watching the episode. Bernie, Serena, Charlotte, and Elinor crowd onto the sofa as usual—Bernie’s selfishly happy for the fact that Serena takes her usual spot pressed right up against her—with Jason in his chair and Cam and Mallory on the floor, using the bottom of the sofa as a back rest.

The kids all whoop and cheer when Mel and Sue come onto the screen and Bernie finds herself smiling. She looks down at Serena and Serena’s already smiling up at her. This, she thinks, is how things should be.

The episode is a lot more fun to watch than it was to do, Bernie can recall the stress of the moment like it was yesterday. The kids are especially excited about seeing themselves onscreen, both in the scenes shown of Bernie preparing for the finale and at the garden party. Bernie’s favourite part is her in the kitchen with Serena. There’s only a brief few seconds shown but Bernie knows she’ll rewatch it again and again. Serena coming up and hugging Bernie is shown along with, more surprisingly, Bernie’s quiet admission that she did it for her. Bernie watches herself onscreen, watches how she looks at Serena, and wonders how Serena can’t see it. Perhaps, she thinks, Serena has noticed how Bernie looks at her and she’s just choosing not to say anything. Or perhaps she’s deliberately not noticing what’s there plain as day.

Bernie’s not sure which is worse.

She can’t help but feel a bit morose, then, at the end. With all her family and Serena’s family cavorting about in excitement and talking about their favourite moments, their favourite bakes, Bernie knows she should be happy. She feels, instead, weighted down with the heavy sadness that always comes when good things end. She tries to act normal, to not arouse suspicion, at least until she can be on her own.

Bernie drops Charlotte off at her place before going back to her flat with Cameron and Mallory. She bids them goodnight and heads into her room, leans against the door in the dark, sadness welling up inside her chest. She’s leaving soon. She has two weeks left at Holby and then she has to move on. She’s been avoiding thinking about it, hasn’t made any preparations for where she’ll go next. Calling around, finding new locum placements, would’ve been facing the fact that she’s going to be leaving soon, and she’s been avoiding that at all costs. She needs to accept it, she’s moving on and that’s it.

She needs to stop thinking of Serena’s house as a home.

She needs to stop thinking of Serena as home.

She pulls out the cross stitch she bought all those weeks ago, sits on the edge of her bed and traces the words with her fingers, over and over again. She remembers, suddenly, something she had said to Serena months ago, during one of their weekends in Bath, about being tired of running, about maybe wanting to stop.

It’s truer now, by far. She’s world-weary and her feet ache and she’s finally found a place that she doesn’t want to leave.   
The next morning over a cup of coffee she vows to concentrate on enjoying her time in Holby until it’s done, rather than worrying about the fact that it’s almost over. She has just under two weeks left, after all, she may as well make the most of them. She drops Cameron and Mallory off at the train station and heads into work, looks around the office to make sure she’s committing it to memory.

She invites Serena into theatre with her at every possibility, takes closer note than usual of how well they work together, at how much she loves looking across the table and being met by Serena’s warm brown eyes. She relishes in every moment of everyday that week, and when Serena asks her to come over and bake with her on Sunday she says yes immediately.

It’s a perfect day, by all accounts. Bright and sunny, even though it’s well into October, and the kitchen is warm and golden. Elinor and Jason are out, at work and at Alan’s respectively so it’s just Serena and Bernie. As much as she loves both Elinor and Jason, Bernie’s happy for that. Happy to have Serena all to herself, if just for a bit. Their mission for the day is to make Christmas fruitcakes.

Fruitcakes are best made months in advance, as the fruits release tannins as they age. And in fact fruitcakes can last well over a year with no extraordinary precautions taken. Serena’s recipe, a hand-me-down dating back to her Great-Grandmother at least Bernie learns, calls for the fruitcake to be made two months or more in advance, and stored, wrapped in brandy-soaked muslin, with more brandy brushed on the cake every week of the curing process.

Serena prepped the dried and candied fruits a few days earlier, soaking them in brandy in preparation for today, she retrieves them from the fridge while Bernie starts beating the butter and sugar together, following the recipe card—yellowed with age and spotted with what was undoubtedly a bit of fruitcake mix from years before—to the letter.

She’s using the stand mixer today, giving her arm a rest she jokes to Serena, and the process moves quickly enough. Once the butter and sugar mixture is fluffy, Bernie adds the eggs one at a time, then the vanilla extract. Serena sifts the flour and spices together in another bowl. They add the dry ingredients in stages, and once it’s all well mixed together they pour in the fruit and brandy mixture and Serena gives it a few folds, just enough to incorporate the fruit well. They scrape the mix into four separate loaf tins and then pop them in the oven. The air smells like cloves and nutmeg and Bernie can’t resist licking the beater before she places it with the other dishes in the sink.

She leans back against the fridge and watches Serena pull the muslin cloths down out of a high cupboard, just barely tall enough to reach. She looks especially beautiful today, Bernie thinks. She’s not wearing anything special, just jeans and a wonderfully cosy sweater. No makeup, not today. She looks comfortable though, and Bernie likes that, likes how casual looks on Serena. She smiles at her because she can’t help it. Serena turns around, sees Bernie smiling at her and she smiles back. Bernie soaks in every detail of that smile: the way the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen, the way her eyes twinkle, the way her whole face seems to glow.

And then, perhaps because of the sweet smell of fruitcakes baking away, or perhaps because she’s leaving soon, or perhaps simply because self-control can’t hold out forever, Bernie steps forward and kisses Serena.

It happens all at once, really. One moment she’s across the room and the next she’s taken two striding steps across the hardwood floor. One moment she doesn’t have her lips against Serena’s and the next she does. One moment her hands are hanging at her sides, the next they’re holding tight onto the counter on either side of Serena’s hips.

The kiss is brief, just a second of Bernie learning that Serena’s lips are impossibly soft, that it’s better than anything she ever dreamed of, and then she’s pulling back, pulling away. Serena doesn’t let her go far though, reaches up and wraps her arms around Bernie’s shoulders and joins their lips together once more.

Bernie’s breath hitches in her throat. She leans in closer. Serena’s lips part slightly and Bernie takes the opportunity to lick into her mouth. Serena digs her hands in Bernie’s hair and Bernie kisses her earnestly, like her life depends on it and maybe, in that moment, it does. Serena moans and Bernie gasps in a breath against her lips. She feels like she’s been waiting her entire life for this moment. She can’t get enough, doesn’t think that she’ll ever get enough, not of this. Not of the way Serena feels pressed up against her, certainly not of the deep throaty sounds Serena makes when Bernie flicks her tongue against hers.

It’s the beep of the kitchen timer, at the end of the day, that wrenches Bernie harshly back into reality. She steps back immediately, staring at Serena’s kiss-reddened lips and tries to quantify what she’s just done.

She can’t, so she turns and runs.

She runs to the door, shoves her feet into her shoes, grabs her coat and her bag, runs to her car, speeds the whole way back to her flat.

She takes two steps inside and then she slides to the floor, drops her head into her hands, and wishes desperately that she weren’t such a wretched fool.


	20. The Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have good news and bad news and I'm not sure which is which.  
> This is not the final chapter. I was hoping to wait and post this all together as one big ol thing but life has been nothing short of crazy and this part's done and ready to go so here we are.  
> Who knows when the final chapter will happen but if school could slow down and ppl I love could stay out of hospital I might actually get there!
> 
> (oh and for people who chose to comment just asking for more when i didn't update quickly enough for them: this is free. this is not my gpa. this is not my life. the real world takes precedence and i unfortunately am not blessed with unlimited writing time. in the future, keep stuff like that to yourself, it's not motivating it's just stress-inducing and it makes me want to punch things)

“Stupid, stupid idiot,” Bernie whispers to herself as she drives to work on Monday morning. It’s not yet seven but she couldn’t spend one more second in her flat, lying in bed and running through the events of Sunday again and again. The kiss, oh that kiss, incredible in the moment but so incredibly foolish in the long run. Bernie doesn’t know what in hell moved her to do it—except she still can’t imagine having done anything else in that moment.

She fights with herself about it, argues back and forth in her mind. Did Serena really kiss her back? Entirely, of her own volition, actually kiss her back? She wants to say yes but she thinks she’s just being foolish, hoping for something that wasn’t really there. She pulls into the car park, heads up to the ward, and gets to work—hopes that it will be enough of a distraction for her racing mind.

She keeps an eye on the time to make sure that she’s not in the office when Serena’s due to show up. At a quarter to eight a trauma comes in and Bernie feels bad for being grateful. The man, who fell off his roof and onto the spike of his neighbour’s ornate fence, will be fine, Bernie’s sure. But the surgery will take hours and the effort is the perfect distraction.

It’s past noon by the time she gets out and she makes a pass by of the office, glancing inside to see if it’s empty, before she circles back and heads inside. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see Serena, exactly. Well, Bernie always wants to see Serena. Even in the worst moment of the worst day Bernie thinks she’ll always want to see Serena. It’s just that she doesn’t want to face Serena’s reaction to the events of Sunday. Will she be angry? Embarrassed? Bernie doesn’t know and she’s not really looking forward to finding out.

She gets some paperwork done, checks her watch and sees that it’s been long enough that she can excuse another set of rounds, moves to the door, distracted by Serena’s scarf—the red one that complements her colouring so well—hanging from the back of Serena’s chair, and collides directly into Serena.

“Sorry,” she says, kneeling to help Serena pick up the papers that scattered everywhere.

“It’s fine,” Serena replies, and Bernie chalks her slight breathlessness up to the collision.

They stand a little awkwardly, and Bernie makes an effort at righting the papers in her hands into something resembling an orderly pile before handing them over. “Thanks,” Serena says, accepting the arm load.

“Are you, um, okay?” Bernie asks.

“Fine,” Serena replies, just a touch too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be? Everything’s great, wonderful, super-duper!” she’s speaking much too fast, something must be wrong.

“Um, I just meant... because of the collision....” Bernie gestures lamely between them and Serena titters nervously.

“Of course, right, no I’m fine. Nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

“Right,” Bernie says feeling distinctly like she is not at all fine. “I was, um, just off to do rounds,” she continues, scanning Serena’s face for any hint of how she’s doing.

“Well you don’t need my permission,” Serena says brusquely.

“O-o-okay then,” Bernie says and, after a moment, turns on her heel and leaves. Out on the ward, she pauses to squirt hand sanitizer into her hands, rubs them together and curses silently.

Twice that day she sees Serena heading her way and then turning and walking in another direction as soon as she catches sight of Bernie. Bernie doesn’t know what to do, what to say. She doesn’t really want to talk about what happened, in fact if Serena just wants to forget it ever happened that’s fine by her. But this uncomfortable detente is not how she’d like to spend her last two weeks in Holby.

The day goes by quickly enough, AAU is packed and Bernie spends most of her day in theatre. When she gets to the office at the end of her day, it’s quite late and she expects Serena to be long gone. She isn’t though, she’s sitting at her computer working, or at least staring at the screen.

“Serena?” Bernie says tentatively and Serena jumps, whirls around.

“Bernie, hi.”

“Hi,” Bernie bites her lip, wonders if she should say anything, address the awkwardness earlier, but decides against it. “Busy day today,” she offers instead.

“Oh, I guess so, yes,” Serena replies.

“Albie’s?” she asks tentatively, hopes that a glass of wine will smooth everything over.

“Um, I-I can’t,” Serena says and Bernie’s stomach sinks. Serena turning down free shiraz is definitely a sign that something’s wrong. “I need to get home to Elinor—oh look! She’s calling me now.” Serena picks up her phone and holds it against her cheek. “Hi darling I’m on my way home right now,” she says while grabbing purse, coat, and scarf with her free hand and makes a beeline out of the office, running into her chair in her haste.

Bernie falls into her own chair with an explosive sigh, Serena’s fake phone call didn’t fool her for a second. Obviously Serena’s far from okay and Bernie curses herself again for having been foolish enough to kiss her in the first place. Two weeks, that’s as long as she needed to last for. Why could she not have kept her hands—and lips—to herself for two bloody weeks?

Tuesday is almost as bad as Monday. She barely sees Serena all day. It seems to her that each time she has a spare moment in which she might go looking for her, Lou’s right there directing her to another patient who needs her attention. The ward’s still glutted, handling spill-over from the ED above and beyond an unnaturally busy week but Bernie still can’t help but wonder if Lou’s perhaps in cahoots with Serena to keep her busy.

She stays late that night working, comes in early the next day as well. She puts all of her effort into the ward and the patients and hopes desperately that Serena gets less awkward.

* * *

The week has been unbearably awkward between her and Bernie. Serena knows this. She also knows that it’s mostly her fault. The thing is, she’s never been anything more than friends with a woman before, has never even considered it a possibility, and it’s terrifying the life out of her. Still, it’s Bernie. Sweet, lovely Bernie. Serena’s best friend in the whole world. That, she thinks, doesn’t all change just because of a little kiss. Even if it was the most incredible kiss Serena’s ever had in her life. Not everything has to change, right? She’s not sure about that, she really doesn’t know where they’re going to go next, but she does know she wants Bernie around to figure it out with.

So, after three days of deliberation, Serena makes a decision. When she gets to work on Thursday morning, she bypasses AAU and heads right up to Jayne’s office. She knocks on the open door and steps inside, stands in front of Jayne’s desk and speaks without preamble.

“I want you to offer Bernie Wolfe a consultancy.”

“Good morning Ms. Campbell,” Jayne says. “How are you this morning? Please have a seat.”

“I’ll be better when you agree to offer Bernie Wolfe a consultancy,” Serena replies obtusely, but she does take a seat in the chair Jayne points to. “I- The ward needs her, needs a trauma consultant, at least, and it makes more sense to keep the one we have, who knows how we like to do things, than to have to find someone new and train them all over again.”

“Are you okay?” Jayne asks. “You seem… twitchy.”

“I’m fine,” Serena assures her. “Just worried about the ward, that’s all.”

“Well, as it happens, I agree with you,” Jayne says before Serena can launch into the extensive list of reasons why keeping Bernie is a good idea she’d spent the lion’s share of the night before compiling. “Ms. Wolfe would be an excellent addition to our hospital.”

“You do? I mean, you do, of course you do, good. So you’ll do it?”

“It’s more an issue of her accepting it than anything else.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Serena asks, “I mean, has she said something to you, about being unhappy here?”

“Not at all, Serena, but I’m sure she’s had better offers than Holby. Bigger hospitals, more impressive titles… Well, you know how it is.”

“Make her co-lead then,” Serena blurts out before her brain quite catches up.

“What?” Jayne sort of starts in surprise.

“Offer her co-lead of AAU, she can split the position with me and still get the title,” as she speaks the words she realises it’s the perfect idea—not only would Bernie stay but she’d get to use her expertise to help all of AAU, and the two of them would work well together in the role. She knows that for sure. And while working together they can figure out… whatever they are. Side by side.

As it should be.

“Are you sure?” Jayne presses. Serena can understand her confusion. Serena didn’t used to be the kind of person to share positions or titles with anyone. Still, the days of her power-hungry bids for CEO are long behind her and she’s learned that there is something to be said for work-life balance.

“Completely,” she tells Jayne decisively. “It’s the right move, for the ward.”

“Okay then,” Jayne says, “I mean, you’re preaching to the choir, Serena. Ms. Wolfe’s an asset to this hospital and I’d love to have her here permanently.”

“Good.”

“So would you like to tell her the good news? I know how close the two of you are.”

“No,” Serena shakes her head. She thought this through a lot too. “No I don’t want it to come from me. I want it to be official, to be coming from the hospital, because she’s earned it. Not from me because we’re friends.” And certainly not because of Sunday. She needs Bernie to feel like the offer is in good faith—which it is—so she can accept it without feeling beholden, or like it’s based on some sort of lesbian nepotism.

“Okay,” Jayne seems a tad confused about Serena’s response but she doesn’t press any further. “Well,” she says instead, “I guess I need to draw up some paperwork. Give me a day or two to get it all figured out?”

“Of course,” Serena agrees. “And Jayne?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“I’m just doing what’s in the best interest of the hospital,” Jayne says, but she lets one eye droop in the suggestion of a wink and Serena knows that she’s taken the thanks to heart.

Serena continues to avoid Bernie even after the meeting. She knows she won’t be able to forever but she just needs more time. Time to think everything through. And thinking isn’t helped by the way her stomach flips every time she sees Bernie. She still can’t quite fathom what happened, that Bernie kissed her and that she kissed Bernie back. But in the moment there was nothing else Serena could’ve done. The second that Bernie pressed her lips against hers everything sort of stopped, and then it was like the world slid into place. Something about kissing Bernie just felt… right. She doesn’t know what that means, really. She’s not a lesbian, not by half. She likes men, she always has, likes being with them, very much likes having sex with them. She wonders what having sex with Bernie would’ve been like. It’s not a thought for the workplace, that, so she pushes it out of her mind and concentrates on work, on patients and surgeries and paperwork.

That night, in bed, with the lights turned off, her mind goes back to that question. What would sex with Bernie be like? What would’ve happened if Bernie hadn’t left, if she’d kept kissing Serena, stayed there pressing her up against the counter. The kiss was amazing. Serena can’t remember the last time she had felt so… alive when kissing someone. She thinks of how it felt when Bernie’s tongue delved into her mouth, how amazing it was to dig her hands into Bernie’s messy hair and kiss her right back. She closes her eyes and imagines the kiss not ending, imagines Bernie kissing down her neck, pulling her clothes away as she goes.

It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself, when she finally reaches down and slips her hand into her knickers. It doesn’t mean anything at all, she repeats as she dips her fingers into the wetness there and imagines that it was Bernie’s fingers instead. She bites her lip when she comes and falls asleep wondering what the hell she’s going to do.

She spends all day Friday waiting for Bernie to come up and tell her the good news: that she’s been offered a full time position, that she’s staying, but the moment doesn’t come. She sees Bernie from afar throughout the day, but they’re too busy and they’ve gotten too good at avoiding each other in the past week for anything more than that. She stays in the office a half hour past home time, hoping with every passing minute for Bernie to come in. Finally she gives up and asks one of the nurses where she is.

“In theatre,” is the reply she gets, “exploratory laparotomy.”

She goes into the scrub room, stands in the dark and watches Bernie at work. She doesn’t announce her presence, she knows that that’s probably creepy, but she takes the chance to observe Bernie in her element. She’s so self-assured here, confidently moving about, commanding the room effortlessly. She gets distracted watching her hands move, finds her mind tumbling down a train of thought involve deft fingers and shakes her head. This is ridiculous.

She leaves the scrub room, goes home, stops on the way at a Chinese takeaway for dinner—the last thing she feels like doing is cooking dinner, and with Jason at Alan’s for the fortnight she isn’t bound by the constraints of the meal schedule. She can’t remember when the last time she had takeaway that wasn’t from a chip shop.

She gets home, deposits the styrofoam containers on the kitchen counter, dishes herself up a bowl of fried rice and ginger beef, pours herself an extra-hefty glass of shiraz (it is Friday after all) and has a seat at the dining table. Elinor gets home not much later, comes through to the dining room after a few minutes with a bowl of food of her own.

“Mum?” she says and it’s far more timid than Serena’s used to.

“Yes?”

“Are you… I mean, are you okay?”

Serena doesn’t reply immediately, just takes a deep breath and a sip of wine and Elinor takes the seat beside her, a worried look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Ellie presses.

“Nothing dear,” Serena cannot talk about this with her daughter, “it’s nothing.”

“No it isn’t! You’ve been weird all week,” Elinor replies in that stubborn tone that Serena sometimes thinks she’s had since the moment she said her first word.

“Oh god,” Serena sighs.

“Is it to do with Bernie leaving?” Elinor asks then, quieter this time.

“No! Well, not exactly…” Serena takes a deep breath and decides to just plunge in head first. “The thing is, Bernie um, when she was over on Sunday and we were baking she, well, she kissed me.” She looks over at Ellie, trying to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t look as surprised as Serena expected. “And I kissed her back.”

“Okay,” Elinor says calmly. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not the kiss, no. The kiss was amazing. Bernie’s lips are so soft and—”

“Yeah no!” Elinor interrupts her, waving her hands. “I so don’t need details.”

“Right,” Serena says, grins at her outrage. “Sorry. The thing is, I don’t know…” she trails off, tries again, “I’ve never… with a woman before and… I’m not, I can’t just suddenly be a lesbian. Can I?”

“Well if you want my opinion…” she waits for Serena’s nod. “I guess I think that sexuality is a lot more complex and fluid than people like to think it is. Maybe you’re bisexual, maybe you are a lesbian and you never knew, or maybe you’re straight with one particular exception,” she shrugs. “Does it really matter?”

Does it matter? Such a young person’s question Serena thinks.

“I’m 53 Elinor, I can’t—it’s like turning my whole life upside down.”

“I know. But what I mean is the label can come later, you have lots of time to figure it out. Do you like Bernie? Really like her? Like you wanna spend all your time with her and get that funny feeling in your tummy when you’re around her kind of like her?”

“Ummm,” Serena can’t help but smile, “yeah. I think I do.”

“Well then,” Elinor shrugs. “I think that’s what matters.”

“And you’re okay with it? With me and Bernie?”

“Mum, you don’t exactly have the best history when it comes to the men you dated—”

“What?” Serena interjects.

“Um, sorry but dad? The three guys after dad? That arsehole you dated when I was in high school? James?”

“Geoff. And he wasn’t  _that_ bad.”

“He was a prick.”

“Okay, yes he was rather. Your point?”

“My point is that I actually like Bernie and I couldn’t care less that she’s a woman. Bernie, she’s, I mean, she makes you happy mum. Like really happy. I thought it was Bake Off, at first, but then you got kicked off and you were still so happy all the time, and finally I realised that it’s her. I think you’ve smiled more in the past six months than in the past six years.”

“Oh, darling,”

“I’m not saying you were unhappy before, but you’re happier now. And I think that if you get a chance at happiness you take it. Whether or not it means that you’re a lesbian now.”

“When did you get so wise?” Serena asks her, putting an arm around her shoulders and squeezing tight.

“I guess screwing up your whole life does that to a person.”

“Don’t say that! You didn’t—”

“I sort of did though. But it’s okay, I’m getting through it. Thanks to you.”

“Oh darling, it’s thanks to you. Thanks to all the hard work you’ve been putting in, every single day.”

“Thanks,” Elinor smiles, then shakes her head, “anyway this conversation isn’t about me! When are you gonna go get yourself that girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend, that’s, um…”

“Too juvenile?”

“I was going to say exciting,” Serena knows the grin stretching across her face must be ridiculous but she truly can’t stop herself. She feels bursting with joy and possibility. Bernie. Girlfriend. She wants to roll around in those words for ever.

“Good. I’m gonna go finish dinner in my room but mum?”

“Yes?”

“I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Love you too.” She stands, heads out of the room and Serena watches her go filled with pride; her little girl’s growing up into an amazing young woman.

Serena finishes her meal, tops up her glass and heads into the sitting room. She turns on the tv, pulls up the recording of the Bake Off finale, fast forwards to the end and watches herself and Bernie on the screen. It seems so incredibly obvious now, how could she not have seen it? She watches the way she looks at Bernie, the love pouring out of her face, and is struck by how little she could contain her feelings, even when she had no idea what it was that she was feeling.

She rewinds, watches again, and again. At the end, there, when Bernie tells her that she won it for her, the way she’s looking at Serena is exactly the same way she looked at her on Sunday before kissing her. Serena would very much like for Bernie to look at her like that forever.

She picks up her phone, types out a text with her heart in her throat.

‘I think we should talk. Come over tomorrow?’ It doesn’t take long for her to get a response.

‘I think that’s a good idea. I’ll be by in the morning, not too early though.’

Serena sends back a thumbs up, holds the phone to her chest and sighs happily.

She falls asleep quickly that night, dreams of messy blonde hair and kiss-reddened lips. The next morning she wakes up early, stands in the kitchen drinking coffee and looks out into her garden. It’s a dreary drizzly day in Holby but it’s beautiful to her. She putters around, drinks more coffee, spends some time on the internet looking up terms like lesbian and bisexual and likes the latter more, likes that the possibility of what’s growing with Bernie doesn’t mean she can never be attracted to a man again, likes that it doesn’t erase the validity of what she felt in the past.

She doesn’t quite get to the point of pacing back and forth in front of the door, but she gets close. She keeps her phone close, checks it every minute just in case Bernie sent a text and she missed it. Finally, and it sure feels like finally even if it hasn’t really been that long, she hears a knock on the door. She goes to answer it, smiles brightly at Bernie and gets just a grimace in return.

“Come in, come in,” she says, leads Bernie through to the sitting room, sits down on the sofa and pats the cushion beside her. Bernie doesn’t sit down, however, just places the small brown paper bag she brought with her on the coffee table and stands with her hands in her pockets looking everywhere but at Serena.

“Um, Ms. Grayson offered me a full-time position yesterday,” Bernie begins finally. “Trauma consultant. Co-clinical lead of AAU, too.”

“Mmm,” Serena says. “And what was your answer?”

“I uh, asked for the weekend to think it over,” Bernie looks at Serena as she says it, looks apologetic. The words hit Serena like a sack of bricks. What the hell is there for Bernie to think over? She gets to stay, they get to keep working together and baking together and maybe trying new other things together too.

“Oh,” she says because Bernie is looking at her like she’s waiting for her to speak, tries not to sound too crestfallen. “W-were there things you needed to think about?”

“Um, well,” Bernie bites her lip and fidgets and Serena wishes she didn’t find it so cute. “There were, I mean, I have thought about it and, um, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“What?”

“I mean, I’ve obviously made you incredibly uncomfortable with all this,” she waves her hands around, “and I just think that us working together after, um, what happened. Well. You need space. It’s, I mean, we’re not exactly the ideal romance are we? You, dyed in the wool heterosexual, me, well…” she gestures towards herself and shrugs. Like that says everything.

“So you’re leaving?” Serena didn’t know it was possible to feel like this: to go from being so happy to being so incredibly bereft in such a short period of time.

“Well, it’s better that way isn’t it? I mean, we’ll still be friends, we’ll still see each other, but we’ll get some distance as well.”

“But… we’ll just be friends?” Serena can’t move, can’t comprehend what’s happening. She wants nothing more than to fling herself at Bernie, kiss her soundly and tell her she’s never allowed to leave, but apparently that’s not what Bernie wants.

“It’s for the best,” Bernie says again, shrugging.

“You don’t have to leave though,” Serena tries. Wishes she didn’t sound so desperate but she is. She is desperate. Desperately in love with a woman who apparently doesn’t want her back. “We can still work together, we make such a great team!” Please, she thinks to herself. Please just don’t go.

“No, Serena, I can’t. I need to move on.”

“I don’t und—you won Bake Off because I asked you to Bernie. Can’t you stay because I’m asking you to?”

Bernie just looks at her, brown eyes filled with regret and it makes Serena’s breath catch in her throat. She won’t cry in front of Bernie, she refuses to. She’ll beg and plead and debase herself but she will not cry.

“I’m sorry Serena,” Bernie says finally. “That,” she points at the bag, “it’s for you. Don’t- I mean, don’t open it now. I, um, I’ll call Ms. Grayson on Monday but I think I’ll be spending my last week in Holby in packing.” She gives Serena one final, long look. “Goodbye Serena.” And then she’s leaving, walking out of the room, and Serena sits woodenly on the sofa, watches her go, listens to the sound of the door opening and closing. She sits like that for a while, she doesn’t know how long, and then she leans forward, grabs the bag, opens it up and pulls out the contents, tossing the bag aside.

It’s a cross-stitch. Small, simple, framed by the hoop it was sewn in. The stitching is unembellished text, dark blue on a white background, and Serena thinks that the threads might match Bernie’s trauma scrubs perfectly. There’s two black lines above and below as borders, and two hearts that must be the exact colour of shiraz centred at the top and the bottom. She reads over the words slowly, each one feeling like a physical blow.

‘someone asked me

to describe home

and i started talking about your hair color

and the sound of your voice

and the taste of your lips

and how your skin feels like

until i realized

they had expected to hear a place’

Serena can feel the tears roll down her cheeks, can’t do anything to stop them. Why would Bernie have this? Why would Bernie give this to her if she doesn’t love her, doesn’t want to be with her? Serena’s always had a clear view of what home is. Her house has been the best home she ever could’ve asked for. The place she made for herself and Ellie after her divorce, the place she invited Jason into. That is her home.

But as she reads over the stitching again and again, tracing the words with the pad of one finger, she realises that it won’t feel as homey without Bernie here. Her sitting room and her kitchen and her garden don’t seem nearly as important when she thinks of Bernie never being in them again. No Bernie sitting beside her on the porch swing, no Bernie baking at her side in the kitchen, no Bernie to come cuddle with her on the sofa when she’s feeling sad. She cries, deep heaving sobs, and wonders how she could possibly have fallen this hard without really realising it.


	21. Sometimes Home has a Heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. We're here, finally. I honestly cannot believe how long this fic ended up (or how long it took me to finish it).  
> Thank you so much to everyone for your comments, kudos, and words of encouragement across all social media platforms. I'm so glad you all liked it, I hope this was a fitting end. 
> 
> Special shoutouts to Crystal and Nova, my LSLs I love you ladies deeply. To Beth for being an a plus writing pal at every turn. To Sarah for being my personal British dictionary. And to my English prof who bumped my midterm assignment that was due Friday to next Monday making a whole day of working on this fic possible.  
> Also to Maria, who sent me an actual real life mug from Berlin, fueling my obsessive mug collection, that was so super cool and I drank out of it multiple times while working on this final chapter.
> 
> Note the rating change, y'all, it's gonna get a tad steamy.

Bernie drives back to her flat secure in the knowledge that she’s done the right thing. It hurts like hell, she thinks her heart might up and split in half, but it was the right thing. Serena didn’t deserve the confusion that Bernie placed on her by kissing her and this was the only way to make it right. There was a moment, right after Ms. Grayson offered her the permanent position, that Bernie let herself imagine what it would be like, to stay in Holby forever. To make a home here. To make a home with Serena. And then she thought of Serena on Monday, all week really. Strange and uncomfortable and unhappy.

She doesn’t want to complicate Serena’s life with all that.

She unlocks the door to her place, walks inside, sighs deeply. She wants a drink. It’s not even noon, however, and day drinking isn’t exactly the key to a well-balanced life so she decides to bake instead. Bread, she decides, almost immediately. The kneading will do her good—get some of the tension out of her shoulders. She flips through a couple of her recipe books, sets them aside in favour of one she knows by heart.

It’s a simple white bread: flour, yeast, water, salt. It was the first recipe Bernie ever tried, after her accident. The recipe that got her into the kitchen and kept her there. It feels fitting to bake it now, like closure or something.

She proofs her yeast, adds it to the other ingredients, kneads it until the dough is stretchy and shiny and passes the window-pane test with flying colours. She has it proofing in a well-oiled bowl by the time she hears a knock on the door.

“Charlotte!” she greets her daughter when she opens it, “this is a nice surprise!”

“Would you care to tell me,” Charlotte says, pushing past her and into the flat, “why I just got a text from Elinor Campbell saying, ‘are you going to talk sense into your mum or do I have to come over there and kill her myself’?”

“What?” Bernie looks at her, aghast. Charlotte turns around, crosses her arms, cocks her head.

“Yeah. That was my reaction. And then she texted me again and said, ‘sorry but she made my mum cry,’ and then a string of knife emojis so she may well be serious about the murder thing. What the hell did you do?”

Bernie’s still in shock. Serena’s crying? Because of her?

“I…” she walks over to the sofa, sits down heavily.

“Seriously mum,” Charlotte says, following her, “what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Bernie protests. Charlotte gives her a look that says, ‘yeah right’ and Bernie could do without that sass right now. “Didn’t we ever teach you ‘honour thy father and mother’ or whatever?” she asks.

“My mother was too busy not being around,” Charlotte counters and ouch. Okay. Fair. But her face softens almost immediately and she reaches out to lay a warm hand on Bernie’s knee. “Sorry, that was—”

“Warranted.”

“Not really. But why don’t you just tell me exactly what happened with Serena and we can go from there.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Charlotte looks especially worried now. “Oh god what the hell did you do?”

“Nothing. It’s not that bad it’s just you’re my daughter and I’m not sure that you—”

“Oh c’mon Mum, just spit it out.”

“Okay. Fine,” she sighs. “I kissed Serena.”

“Finally!” Charlotte exclaims.

“What? No, no, Charlotte don’t smile like that. It’s really, really not a good thing.”

“Not a good kiss?”

“No, oh god no, the kiss… The kiss was perfect. It’s… I mean, I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have kissed her. I knew I shouldn’t. But, oh god, she just looked so beautiful standing there and the kitchen smelled like baking bread and  _her_ and she was smiling at me and I just, um, I don’t know. Before I could stop myself I was pressing her up against the counter and kissing her and she was kissing me back and it was, well it was amazing. But then I realised what I was doing and so, well, um I…”

“Ran?” Charlotte guesses shrewdly.

“Made a tactical retreat?” Bernie tries.

“Right. Okay and that was this morning?” Charlotte asks, obviously still trying to piece this together.

“No, no that was Sunday.”

“Almost a week ago?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“So why would Serena be crying now?”

“Well I mean. Here’s the thing, Lottie, it’s been awful the past week. At work, I mean, I’ve only seen Serena at work and that’s part of the trouble. I tried asking her to go to Albie’s with me and she said no—”

“Serena said no to shiraz?”

“Exactly. And she’s just been so awkward, avoiding me. Obviously I made her incredibly uncomfortable and I mean of course I did! I practically assaulted her! Couldn’t keep all my messy feelings to myself, could I?”

“Okay,” Charlotte doesn’t quite sound like she agrees, “and then what?”

“Well, then today I went over to Serena’s and we talked about it and agreed that we should just be friends and I told her that I’m leaving Holby. To give her space. So she doesn’t have to feel awkward about it anymore.”

“Did you actually talk?” Charlotte asks.

“Of course.” Bernie’s confused, “why would I lie about that of all things?”

“No, what I mean is did you have an actual conversation? Or did you just do that thing where you decide what’s best for everyone and then just tell them that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“Oh.” That’s a little too on the head for Bernie right now.

“Yeah. Cause my guess is that if she’s crying about it right now she probably wasn’t too thrilled with your decision.”

“But she was so weird about it all week,” Bernie still has to try to feel like she did the right thing, “obviously it made her incredibly uncomfortable.”

“Mmm, could be,” Charlotte shrugs. “Did you ever stop and consider that maybe her awkwardness was her, a woman over fifty, coming to terms with the fact that she’s gay or bi or whatever?”

“Um,” Bernie hadn’t thought about it like that but Charlotte’s starting to make sense.

“It took you forty-odd years to come out,” Charlotte continues. “You couldn’t give Serena a few days?”

“That’s… a very good point,” Bernie admits. Her daughter seems to be particularly harsh tonight but Bernie can’t blame her, she’s right after all.

“Yeah.” Charlotte’s giving her a sort-of pitying look and Bernie knows she deserves it.

“What do you think?” she asks. Seeking advice on her love life from her daughter isn’t her idea of an ideal situation but it’s better than leaving it all up to herself apparently.

“What do I think?” Charlotte blows out a long breath, “well mum, I think that you and Serena are both so head over heels in love with each other and so maddeningly obtuse that the whole of Britain knew you were in love with each other before you two did. I think that Serena’s probably the best thing that could ever and will ever happen to you and if you let her slip through your fingers then you’re an idiot. I think—”

“That’s good enough,” Bernie interrupts. Charlotte sounded like she could keep going all night. “Thanks, very much.”

“All I was going to say was that despite your  _many_ failures—”

“Hey! Enough of that!”

“You’re not an idiot.” Charlotte smiles kindly, still a little pityingly, clasps Bernie’s knee warmly.

“You really think Serena likes me?” Bernie asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“God yes. More than likes you. And before you ask, no I don’t think it matters how many men she’s slept with or if she’s never snogged a woman before.”

Bernie sits in silence for a bit, tries to wrestle, mentally, with everything that Charlotte’s telling her. She’s known for months that she loves Serena as more than a friend. Has known in how much she yearns to be with Serena, in the fireworks that shoot through her every time they touch, has noticed in the way that she wants to spend time with her more than anyone else. But how has she not noticed the same on Serena’s behalf?

When she really concentrates she can remember Serena’s eyes flitting down to her lips as she speaks, can think of how Serena always moved in closer to her—on the sofa, at Albie’s, in the hotel lobby in Bath all those months ago. Is it possible, could it be possible that Serena likes her back? That despite the, to her seemingly insurmountable, obstacle of her gender Serena might want to be with her too?

She thinks back to the kiss. To that amazing, perfect kiss. Serena hadn’t pulled back in disgust, hadn’t moved away. No, instead Serena had moved in as Bernie pulled back, dug her hands into Bernie’s hair, parted her lips and let Bernie lick into her mouth…

Bernie looks up at her daughter, knows that comprehension must be dawning on her face, as obvious as her nose.

“Oh,” is all she says.

“Yeah.”

“So what do I do?”

“I don’t know!” Charlotte says. “How should I know? Bake her a cake? Send her flowers? Buy her chocolates? Or a bottle of shiraz? I’m not a relationship expert. What did you do with Dad when you mucked up?”

“Um,” Bernie grimaces, “ran away to a war zone?”

“Right,” Charlotte nods, “yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s gonna work here.”

“I wouldn’t think so, no.”

“This might seem a drastic suggestion, especially for our family, but have you considered just going and telling Serena how you really feel?”

“No,” she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Bernie would do anything in her power to avoid telling anyone how she feels. She can’t even tell herself how she feels most of the time.

“Might be the best bet.”

“Right,” Bernie nods. “Except, I can’t go now, I just started bread.”

“You’re going to wait to tell the woman of your dreams how you feel because of some bread?” Charlotte’s words are filled with exasperation. “No, you know what, I have studying to do so I’m going to go do that and trust that you can figure this out on your own. Okay?”

“Yes. Of course. Go study,” Bernie says. “And Lottie?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“I’d say any time but I think we’re probably better off not talking about your love life too often,” Charlotte says as she stands up. “Ooh! Maybe you can just let Serena make all your big emotional decisions from now on?”

“Ha!” Bernie says, standing herself and pulling Charlotte into a tight hug. “You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” Charlotte replies, laughing. “Bye Mum.”

“Bye dear.”

And then Charlotte’s out the door and Bernie’s alone again.

She decides not to go immediately, wants to wait for the bread to be done. She’d happily throw out ten times as much dough for Serena, that’s not the issue. The thing is, the bread’s given her an idea, a thought as to how she can show Serena how she feels. Bernie’s never been great with words, she knows she’ll need something more.

During the second proof she nips out to the really posh wine shop around the corner, spends an eye-watering amount on a bottle of shiraz that the woman there swears is truly the very best. She considers wrapping the bottle, thinks of her wrapping skills as a whole and decides against it. It’s not like she’s trying to keep it a secret as to what it is, anyway. When the bread is baked and mostly cooled, she wraps it loosely in a cloth, grabs the bottle of wine, and heads to Serena’s. It’s nearing on six by the time she gets there, the sun’s setting, painting the sky bright orange, Bernie just hopes that that’s a good omen.

She knocks on the door, is surprised when Elinor answers it.

“Bernie,” she says, her voice cold.

“Elinor, hi. I’m, uh, here to see your mum.”

“Hmmm,” Elinor gives her a long considering look.

“I’m here to make things right,” Bernie says, her voice cracking slightly with the earnestness of her tone. “I promise.”

“Well, okay,” Elinor nods. “But if you ever, I mean ever make her cry again, I’ll kill you.”

“Never,” Bernie vows. “I swear, Elinor. If she lets me I will spend the rest of my life doing everything in my power to make sure that she’s never unhappy again.”

“Alright,” Elinor says, reaches behind her and grabs a bag. “Let my mum know I’ll be back tomorrow? I want to give you two your space.”

Bernie just nods, steps through the door, lets it fall shut behind her.

“Who was it, Elinor?” she hears Serena call, follows the sound through to the kitchen to find Serena seated at the dining room table, flipping through a magazine.

“Hi, Serena,” she says quietly. Serena whirls around.

“Bernie!” she sort of half-gasps the word. Bernie scans her face intently, sees the signs—redness around the eyes, a slight blotchiness in her complexion—and finally truly believes that Serena had been crying. She looks sad, Bernie thinks. Sad and maybe a little hopeful, and then she watches the anger settle in, hardening Serena’s features. “I would’ve thought you’d be busy packing,” she says, her voice steel.

“Um, I…” Bernie wishes desperately she were better at talking. Serena doesn’t seem to care wait for her to gather her thoughts. She stands up, grabs mug and plate from the table, and pushes past Bernie into the kitchen to drop them both in the sink. Bernie follows, pulls the bread and wine out of her bag and places them on the countertop.

“What’s this?” Serena asks.

“Without bread and wine,” Bernie says with a shrug, “love goes hungry.”

“I’m more than capable of baking my own bread and buying my own wine,” Serena says, tone withering. “I can take care of myself, Ms. Wolfe. I was doing it long before you came along.”

“I know!” Bernie hurries to say. “I know that, I know you can. I just… um….” she takes a deep breath, then another, wills the words out of her mouth. “I think, before, when we were talking… Well, it was brought to my attention that I didn’t really give you a chance to say how you feel? The thing is I, um, oh god, I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t think I ever let myself believe that you might love me back. In the, um, lesbian sense, I mean. Oh god I’m not—”

“No,” Serena breaks in, “no you’re doing a fine job.” She pauses after she says that, takes a moment before continuing, much quieter now, “d-do you mean it? You love me?”

“Of course,” Bernie says. How could she be anything but madly in love with Serena? “This, um, loaf of bread,” she says, reaching out to touch it, “it’s not just any loaf of bread. It’s the first recipe I ever tried, the first thing I ever baked. This loaf of bread in a way brought me to you, and I. I mean, as soon as I realised how much I’d made a mess of everything I almost rushed over immediately, but I wanted to finish this loaf, and maybe that was wrong, but, um, I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to understand how much I owe to this, um, bread…” she trails off because she’s fairly certain she sounds like an idiot, searches Serena’s face and tries to understand the expression there. She doesn’t look angry, at least.

“Oh Bernie,” Serena breathes out in a rush, and then she’s stepping forward and using the tips of two fingers to lift Bernie’s chin so she can drop a kiss on Bernie’s lips. The kiss is chaste and brief but when it’s over their faces stay close to each other—close enough that Bernie can feel Serena’s breath ghost over her cheeks.

Bernie wants to kiss her again oh so badly but she wants to be sure of Serena’s feelings first. The last thing in the world she wants is a repeat of the past week, a distant and confused Serena, or worse a crying one.

“Serena is… I mean do you,” she can’t seem to figure out how to say this, how to ask Serena what she absolutely needs to know. “I’m a woman,” she manages finally.

“I’ve noticed,” Serena replies, throaty and suggestive, and Bernie colours at the innuendo woven into the words. “Bernie,” she continues, more serious now, “I’ve never been more than friends with a woman before, so this is all new territory for me, I’ll freely admit that. But I’m also, and please believe me on this point, madly in love with you, and I love kissing you,” she punctuates that point by sliding her lips against Bernie’s, slow and languid. “And,” she murmurs into Bernie’s ear when the kiss is over, “I’ve spent too many nights this week alone in my bed wondering what would’ve happened if you hadn’t high-tailed it out of here after our kiss to be worried about things like labels.”

Bernie groans at the thought of what Serena’s suggesting, her mind swamped with images of Serena with her hand in her knickers getting herself off thinking of Bernie. She leans in, presses her lips against Serena’s insistently, and Serena happily kisses her back, wrapping her arms around Bernie’s shoulders.

“Wait,” Serena says, breaking the kiss, “are you- you’re not still leaving, are you?” The worry on her face breaks Bernie’s heart. How could she have hurt Serena so badly? Especially when she was trying to do the right thing?

“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “Not if you don’t want me to.” She bites her lip for a moment, “I, um, I never wanted to leave Serena. I just thought I was doing what was best, for both of us.”

“Well that was stupid,” Serena tells her, the blunt words softened by the loving smile on her face.

“I know,” Bernie ducks her head. “Charlotte suggested I let you make all my big emotion-related decisions from now on.”

“Smart girl.”

“I just, I didn’t want to make things harder for you, and… to be honest, I wasn’t sure I could keep myself from kissing you again, once I knew how it felt.”

“Mmmm,” Serena’s eyes are gleaming, “as good as you imagined?” Bernie can recognize the searching question in those words and she wishes there were a way to show Serena just how much she had imagined it.

“Better,” she asserts, leaning in to kiss her again.

Bernie wonders if she’ll ever get over her sheer awe at this: at how incredible this feels. Serena’s lips are so soft, so warm; the little sighs and the way her breath hitches just makes Bernie want to kiss her more.

“Do you think,” Bernie asks, pulling back from Serena’s lips only as far as she needs to to be able to speak, “that everyone would mind if we just kept doing this forever?”

“Ha,” Serena grins, “surgery might get challenging.”

“I think we could manage it, we’re very good at our jobs.”

Serena just rolls her eyes and leans in to meet Bernie’s lips once more. Bernie happily kisses her back, indulges in the familiarity that already exists—the way their heads tilt perfectly so their noses don’t get smushed, the way Serena parts her lips to let Bernie lick into her mouth. She moves then, keeping her lips firmly against Serena’s, but pushing at her hips to back her up against the counter. They separate for a moment and Bernie helps Serena hop up on the counter. She likes this, likes having Serena at the perfect height, and Serena gladly wraps her legs around Bernie’s hips. Bernie braces herself against the counter and leans in towards Serena, this time to concentrate on trailing a line of kisses down her neck. Serena likes that quite a bit judging by the way she moans and leans into the touch. Bernie takes her time retracing her path back up, pausing to suck at Serena’s pulse point and grinning against her skin when Serena gives a little cry of delight at the sensation.

“Bernie, wait,” Serena says, pushing at Bernie’s shoulders, and Bernie pulls back immediately, horrified that she’s already mucked this up somehow. “Oh, Darling,” Serena cups her face in her hands, “please don’t think you were doing anything wrong. That was exquisite. I just don’t think we want Elinor walking in on us in flagrante delicto.”

“Oh,” Bernie replies. Is that all? “Did I forget to mention she left? She um,” Bernie blushes now, “said she wanted to give us our privacy and would be back tomorrow.”

“Well then,” Serena grins and reaches for the hem of her own shirt, pulling it off and tossing it aside, “who am I to keep you from the very important work you were doing?”

“Mmm,” Bernie replies, dropping a light kiss on Serena’s lips. “I think I’d like to talk about that little titbit you dropped earlier, about how you’ve been thinking about this? Thinking about, um, what could’ve happened on Sunday?” As she speaks, she brings her hands up to Serena’s hips, traces light patterns over the bare skin of her sides, back, stomach. Relishes in the fact that she’s allowed to do this, allowed to explore Serena’s skin to her heart’s content and oh god, it's so unbelievably soft and she can do this. She gets to do this.

Serena, for her part, just purses her lips, smiles, lets the wickedness dance in her eyes, and Bernie’s more in love with her than ever.

“Care to hear about it?” she asks, all faux nonchalance.

“Please,” Bernie says, wishes she didn’t sound so desperate but she is, and she’s a fool if she thinks Serena doesn’t know that. She leans back in, starts kissing and sucking at the skin on the other side of Serena’s neck, listens as Serena hums happily.

“Well,” Serena begins, trailing her hands over Bernie’s shoulders and back as she speaks, “there were many different scenarios. You left me to my own devices for an entire week after all. I thought of a few where we snogged in the kitchen for a while before relocating, to the sofa or upstairs, mmm oh I love that, but I do confess a certain fondness for the ones where you fucked me right here on the counter.”

Bernie groans against Serena’s neck at that revelation. She gives one final bit of attention to the spot under Serena’s jaw that she’s quickly learned is her favourite, before raising her head to meet Serena’s eyes. She can’t resist leaning in to kiss her again, short and sweet, thinks that this might be paradise, here in the kitchen with Serena being able to kiss her whenever she wants.

“C-can I?” she asks, inexplicably nervous as she raises a hand to Serena’s chest, is grateful when Serena doesn’t laugh at her, just nods, smiles, and then Bernie’s hand is on Serena’s breast and no, she was wrong earlier, this is paradise. Serena’s bra is a delicate thing, more lace than structure, and Bernie can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric. She palms her breast, runs her thumb over her nipple and feels it harden in response. The bra is lovely, beautiful, but she doesn’t want any barriers between her hands and Serena’s skin right now. She reaches her other hand around Serena’s back to the clasp, looks at Serena for permission and, at her nod, unclasps it, grabs the straps of the bra and pulls them down Serena’s arms, tosses the beautiful lace behind her somewhere and focuses her attention on the newly-bared flesh.

And then she’s holding Serena’s breasts in her hands, rolling the nipples between thumbs and forefingers, listening to the pattern of Serena’s breaths to gauge her response. She leans down then, captures one nipple in her mouth, flicks the tip with her tongue, feels so very accomplished when Serena digs her hands into her hair and eggs her on.

She spends some time like that, going back and forth between Serena’s breasts, sucking and teasing her nipples, kissing all over her breasts, scraping her teeth against the skin of her chest and then laving the skin with her tongue. Serena’s sensitive and responsive, has no qualms about encouraging Bernie’s actions with sighs and cries and moans. She gets louder the longer Bernie spends like that and the thought floats through Bernie’s brain that she’s very glad indeed that Elinor’s not home.

Her hands move to Serena’s trousers, pull them and her pants off in one quick motion and then Bernie bends down, puts a hand on Serena’s hip to steady herself, and sucks Serena’s clit into her mouth. It’s murder on her back but it’s worth it for the sound Serena makes, the way her hips thrust against Bernie’s face. Bernie circles the hard nub with her tongue, presses against it and then flicks at it repeatedly, increasing the speed and the force. It doesn’t take long before Serena’s coming, digging her hands in Bernie’s hair and crying out her name, again and again.

Bernie stands up, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and waits for Serena’s breath to even out. Serena pulls her towards her, kisses her hard, murmurs a thank you into the kiss. Bernie grabs her hips, encourages her to slide off the counter and then spins her around, presses up against her back and starts to kiss her neck. She brings her hands up to Serena’s breasts, tugs at her nipples. Serena arches up at the touch, leans her head back against Bernie’s shoulder.

“Is, is this okay?” Bernie asks.

“More than,” Serena says, voice low, husky.

Bernie continues to kiss her way down Serena’s neck, pausing here and there to suck hard at the flesh as Serena squirms against her. She bites down—hard, open mouthed—on Serena's neck and Serena cries out. Bernie moves her hands down, scratching lightly at Serena’s stomach and then stroking down to her hips, her thighs.

“Don’t tease,” Serena says, breathless, and Bernie obeys the command, moves one hand to Serena’s cunt. She dips her fingers into her wetness, and then circles her clit, rubbing over it a couple of times and enjoying how responsive Serena is.

“Bernie,” Serena whines, high and thready. Bernie heeds her, moves her hand down and thrusts two fingers inside of her.

Serena gasps, thrusts up against the touch, begs Bernie for more. Bernie adds another finger, curls all three inside of her, seeking her g-spot. When she finds it, she rubs the pads of her fingers against it, adds more and more pressure, and grinds her palm down against her clit. Serena gasps and cries and Bernie presses harder and harder, building Serena up and up. She puts her free hand on Serena’s tit, tugs at her nipple, and bites down on her shoulder again.

Serena comes hard, her cunt clenching around Bernie’s fingers, a flood of wetness soaking Bernie’s hand. She wails out Bernie’s name, her hands gripping the counter hard for support. Bernie coaxes her through the orgasm, continues to rub her clit with her thumb, waits until Serena’s breathing steadies to pull her fingers out of her. She steps back a step, licks her fingers clean. Serena turns around, her eyes dark. She wastes no time in stepping forward, grabbing the hem of Bernie’s shirt and pulling it over her head. She leans in, kisses Bernie deeply, when their tongues touch Bernie feels weak in the knees. Serena reaches for the clasp of Bernie’s bra and Bernie pulls back.

“Wait,” she says, “I don’t, you don’t have to—”

“Have to?” Serena looks at her incredulously. “Bernie, I cannot explain how much I want to… Have I not made that obvious?”

“Yes,” Bernie drags out the word, “I just, I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable, to feel pressured. You don’t have to do anything…”

“Ah,” Serena says, cups Bernie’s cheek with her hand, “how about I promise to tell you if I feel uncomfortable at any point?”

Bernie nods and Serena kisses her sweetly, pulls back and reaches for the clasp of Bernie’s bra, waits for her nod before she pulls it off.

The look on Serena’s face as she holds Bernie’s breasts in her hands is what Bernie can only describe as reverent. She rubs her thumbs over Bernie’s nipples and Bernie hisses, moves into her touch and the look turns to exultant.

“I may not be an expert,” she tells Bernie solemnly, “but I’m determined to be good at this.” Bernie believes her. She leans in to kiss Serena again, slips her hand into Serena’s hair and tugs gently. Serena hums happily, deepens the kiss, runs the blunt of her nails over Bernie’s nipples.

She pulls back, kisses Bernie’s neck, and moves her hands down to Bernie’s jeans. She undoes the fly, slips her hand inside.

“Oh darling,” she says and the tone makes Bernie shiver, “you’re drenched.”

She is, she hadn’t realised just how wet she was until this moment, but now she can’t think of anything but just how turned on she is, how good Serena’s fingers feel tentatively circling her clit. She strokes harder once, twice, and Bernie thrusts up into the touch, desperate for more, more friction, more pressure, more anything. Serena seems to sense her needs and complies, rubs the pad of one finger against Bernie’s clit again and again moving faster, more sure. Bernie can feel her orgasm building up inside her, more and more, like a wall of pressure. She looks up at Serena, and Serena’s looking at her, looking at her with love and awe and wonder.

Bernie bites down on her lip as she comes.

Serena leans in, kisses her again and again, keeps her fingers on Bernie’s clit, keeps exerting pressure, doesn’t let up in the slightest and Bernie can hardly believe it as a second orgasm comes on the heels of the first.

“Wow,” she says when she finally feels back to herself. “That was, wow.”

“Eloquent,” Serena says with a smug smile. “C’mon Ms. Wolfe, I want to fuck you on my bed next.” Bernie groans, pulls her close and kisses her again, puts her hands on Serena’s incredible arse and squeezes just because she can.

They make their way upstairs, slowly, stopping innumerable times to kiss or touch each other, to let Serena pull off whatever articles of clothing Bernie has left, leaving a trail to Serena’s bedroom. Bernie quickly falls in love with the feeling of Serena pushing her against the wall and kissing her, desperate and teasing and oh so hot. She responds in turn, uses her newfound freedom to touch and explore with abandon. They make it to Serena’s bed, finally, after a good long moment against the door jamb, Bernie pressing Serena against the wood, teasing her by slipping her thigh between her legs and pressing hard enough to tease but not enough to offer any real release.

They fall onto the bed laughing, pawing at each other, kissing each other all over.

Bernie happily straddles Serena’s stomach, braces her hands on the mattress and leans down to kiss her, exults in how it feels to kiss her lying down instead of standing up. Serena’s quick to gain the upper hand, flips them over and grins down at Bernie. Bernie has her straddle her thigh, presses it up against her and watches Serena’s reactions to the sensation play out across her face.

Bernie grabs Serena’s hips, encourages her to move against her thigh. Serena puts her hands on her own breasts, tugs at her nipples and Bernie’s awed by how beautiful she is, shameless and sensual, riding Bernie’s thigh with abandon. She talks the whole time, keeping up a litany of ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘oh god’ and then she’s crying out and coming, collapsing down onto Bernie, meeting her lips for a succession of soft kisses.

“Thank you,” Serena says quietly. “That was wonderful.”

“You’re wonderful,” Bernie replies, can’t think of anything else to say, really.

“Mmmm,” Serena smiles, kisses the corner of Bernie’s mouth, “now I’d like to make you come with my mouth.”

Bernie chokes at the words, at the blatancy of them.

“Is that okay?” Serena presses.

“Um, yes, of-of course.”

“Okay,” Serena smiles, “good. Now keep in mind I’ve never done this before so you’ll need to let me know if I’m doing something wrong.”

“You’ve done pretty well so far,” Bernie assures her.

“I have, haven’t I?” Serena says, smug and sexy and hot as hell.

She makes her way slowly down Bernie’s body, stopping to kiss and suck at her skin. It’s like she has a sixth sense telling her where each of Bernie’s erogenous zones are. She teases the skin in the hollow beside Bernie’s hip bone with her teeth and Bernie moans at the feeling; she didn’t even know until this moment how sensitive she was there.

By the time Serena gets to Bernie’s cunt, Bernie is absolutely drenched once again. Serena noses into Bernie’s bush, tentatively licks Bernie’s clit. Bernie’s hips buck and Serena chuckles, lays an arm over Bernie’s hips to keep them still.

She takes her time, laving Bernie’s clit with her tongue, gentle and teasing. Bernie’s breath hitches, her hips moving under Serena’s arm. Serena starts to move faster, she sucks Bernie’s clit into her mouth and then strokes against it over and over. When she has Bernie gasping and squirming under her touch she pulls back for a moment. She thrusts one finger into Bernie’s cunt, then two, and lowers her head to Bernie’s clit once more.

Serena’s driving her insane, Bernie thinks. Her brain is nothing but sensation and want and need. She reaches down, threads her fingers into Serena’s hair and Serena hums against her clit. Bernie gasps, grinds down against Serena’s mouth.

“Please,” she says, voiced laced with desperation. “Please, Serena.”

Serena adds another finger, thrusts them in and out as she sucks hard at Bernie’s clit and Bernie comes, keening.

Serena crawls back up the bed, settles against Bernie’s side. They lie curled into each other, quiet in the darkening dusk, their fingers tracing patterns over each other’s skin until the silence is broken by Bernie’s stomach grumbling loudly. Serena chuckles, curling closer into Bernie for a moment before sitting up.

“Sounds like I need to feed you if I want you to keep your strength up,” she says.

“No, Serena,” Bernie protests, “it’s fine, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Serena stands, goes to her closet and comes out with two robes, one of which she tosses at Bernie. “Truth be told, I’m getting hungry too.”

They pad down the stairs barefoot, find some pasta and a jar of sauce in the cupboard, Bernie helps out as Serena whips up a quick meal of spaghetti bolognese. They eat standing in the kitchen, washing the food down with hefty glasses of wine. Bernie quickly learns that she loves the taste of shiraz on Serena’s lips. They leave their dishes in the sink, top up their glasses and head back up the stairs.

They sit in bed, finish their wine, kissing softly between sips, when they’re done they put the glasses aside and Bernie tugs Serena to her, coaxes an orgasm out of her with her fingers, another with her tongue, and Serena responds in turn. They fall asleep exhausted and spent, clasped in each other’s arms.

* * *

Serena wakes warm and cosy, opens her eyes to warm autumn sun streaming in through her windows. She’s in Bernie’s arms, that she knows immediately, her head pillowed on Bernie’s chest. She smiles as she remembers everything that led her to this moment: the heartbreak and the joy of the previous day. Her stomach flutters, she wonders when she’ll get used to the incredible liberating feeling of her attraction to Bernie—to a woman. She feels Bernie shift, looks up to see her eyes flutter open. Her lips quirk into a smile when she meets Serena’s gaze and Serena grins back. She lifts her head, leans in and kisses her, morning breath and all. It’s more awkward than erotic, their teeth clash a bit and their noses end up smushed together from the angle but it’s still perfect.

“Morning,” Bernie says after they separate.

Serena just hums in response, drops one more chaste peck on the corner of Bernie’s mouth. The moment is broken by the sound of Serena’s phone buzzing on the night stand. She turns to grab it, spies the time on her alarm clock, 8:30, as she does so.

“It’s a text from Elinor,” she tells Bernie, once she’s tapped out a reply. “Wants to know when it’s, quote safe to come home end quote.”

“Oh,” Bernie replies, her cheeks beginning to colour immediately. Serena barely tamps down a laugh, making Bernie blush is one of the true joys in this world, now even more so than before. “We should go clean, shouldn’t we?” she asks, making to leave the bed. Serena stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine Bernie, I told her to give us a couple of hours.”

“Hours? Surely it won’t take us that long—” her words cut off when Serena straddles her, grinning wickedly.

“Surely not,” Serena agrees. “I’m thinking it will only take us, oh, maybe twenty, thirty minutes to clean up and make ourselves look presentable, which leaves us an hour and a half for other things.”

“You,” Bernie says with that loud braying laugh Serena finds oh so endearing, “are absolutely insatiable.”

“I like sex,” Serena replies simply. She always has and she’s never found a reason to feel ashamed about it. “And it’s been far too long and you’re far too good at it for me to be anything but insatiable.” She punctuates her words with a long languid kiss, teasing Bernie with her lips and tongue.

The sex is less hurried, less frantic than it was the night before. They move in tandem, stroke the other’s clit in unison, and when they come, together, they muffle their moans with a kiss.

They shower separately, for the sake of both time and Serena’s water heater. Bernie has an extra change of clothes in her car—an old habit, she maintains, despite Serena’s gentle teasing about her expectations when she came over the night before. They backtrack their movements from the night before, make sure they pick up every stray piece of clothing, and by the time they hear the front door open the house is as neat as it ever is, the only evidence from the turmoil of the day before the cross stitch sitting on a side table in the living room and the loaf of bread and bottle of wine on the counter in the kitchen.

“Good lord,” Serena says to Bernie as they clean, taking her first good look at the wine Bernie bought, “do I want to know how much you paid for this?”

Bernie just stammers, shakes her head.

“Well,” Serena says, “the next time you muck up you can get my usual brand for a tenner. I don’t want you going broke fuelling my habit.”

“The next time?” Bernie asks. Serena cocks her head, smiles.

“Mmmm, are you living under some sort of mad illusion that we’re never going to fight again?”

“Good point,” Bernie admits. “What was the name of that wine again.”

“Ha!” Serena leans in and kisses her, rubs their noses together as she pulls away. “I’ll text it to you.”

They’re in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to finish brewing when Elinor walks in, Charlotte right behind her.

“Hi mums,” they say, almost in unison and Serena laughs as she steps forward and hugs both of them in turn.

“Is that what you’re calling us now?” she asks, casting a quick glance towards Bernie to see what she thinks of it. Bernie just sort of shrugs, grins and Serena grins right back.

“We’ve all been calling you that for months, actually,” Elinor informs her, ducking past her to be the first one to the coffee machine—some things never change.

“All?” Bernie asks.

“Yeah, all your kids,” Charlotte says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “us, Cam, Jason. We have a group chat and after a while it was just easier to just call you ‘mums’.”

“Except for Jason, of course,” Elinor adds. “Though last week he did call you ‘Aunties Serena and Bernie’ which is pretty much the same thing coming from him.”

Serena doesn’t know what to say to that, not really, but she catches Bernie’s eye again and then they’re both bursting out laughing, falling against each other in their mirth.

“We really are daft, aren’t we?” she asks Bernie once they’ve both caught their breath.

“Apparently,” Bernie agrees, leans down to kiss Serena sweetly.

“Gross,” their daughters say in unison and Serena can’t help but chuckle as she pulls away.

“Have you two eaten?” she suddenly changes the subject.

“Not yet,” Charlotte answers.

“Well then, we might as well rustle something up then eh?” Serena says.

They manage to find all the ingredients needed for a Full English, all work together to get the meal on the table.

“Oh!” Elinor says as they sit down to eat, “I almost forgot.” She heads towards the door, comes back with a bottle, hands it over to Serena. Serena has a moment of cold fear, Elinor buying alcohol isn’t exactly a good sign, but when she takes a look at the bottle she sees it’s sparkling grapefruit juice. “If you close your eyes and really lie to yourself it’s almost like drinking a grapefruit mimosa,” Elinor says, somehow sardonic and sincere all at once. “I’ll grab glasses.”

They toast to Bernie and Serena with the juice, eat their fill of breakfast. Serena happily makes do with eating one-handed, her other resting on the table, clasped with Bernie’s.

“I hope you don’t mind, I told Cam the good news,” Charlotte says, “he and Mallory are hoping to make it up for a visit within the next few weeks.”

“Good,” Bernie says, tightening her grip on Serena’s fingers for a few seconds. “He and Mallory, that’s still going well then?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte nods, “two more months and they’ll be registrars. Mallory’s gonna take a couple months off, finally change her name legally and all that and then they’re planning to move, start somewhere brand new so it’s easier for her.”

“Tell them to move closer,” Serena says.

“We’re trying,” Elinor says with a laugh. “It’d be nice to have the whole fam in one place.”

It would be.

She doesn’t have any trouble thinking of the whole group, her and Bernie and all the kids, as a family. It doesn’t seem weird, doesn’t seem like a big change, and when she thinks about it she realises it’s because they’ve already been a family for quite a while. Serena finds herself yearning for Tuesday, when Jason’s due back from Alan’s. As much as she’s glad he wasn’t here for the turmoil of the past week, she misses him. She hopes Cam and Mallory come soon, wants to have everyone together under one roof as soon as she can.

When the table cleared and the dishwasher running, the conversation turns to what to do with the rest of their day.

“Bake?” Serena suggests. “Predictable, I know, but how about something quick and easy, biscuits, maybe? We could make enough to bring them into work tomorrow, it’s been a bit since we’ve plied our ward with treats.”

They decide on shortbread and ginger snaps. It’s massively fun, hanging out in the kitchen as a group. Serena can’t ever remember Elinor being interested in something like this. Granted, she and Charlotte spend most of their time sitting on the counter and sneaking scraps of dough but Serena couldn’t care less. They’re there, Bernie is there. Everything is right in the world.

She’s baked with Bernie in this kitchen countless times but it’s so much better now. Now she gets to reach out, touch Bernie as much as she wants. She gets to stroke her hip and stand up on her tiptoes to kiss her and when she reaches out to brush flour off of Bernie’s cheek she gets to linger, to exult in the softness of her skin and the way her beautiful brown eyes widen at the touch.

They try to keep the kissing down to a minimum for the sake of their audience but Serena can’t keep herself from at least touching Bernie. With the biscuits in the oven, she leans back against Bernie who wraps her arms around Serena’s waist and rests her chin on Serena’s shoulder. With the biscuits baked and cooling, they head into the sitting room, drink tea and eat freshly baked shortbread and chat about work and school and what Bernie and Serena will do about their ward.

“We’ll have to tell Jayne,” Serena says. “You didn’t, I mean, you haven’t told her you were leaving, have you?” She’s worried, suddenly, what if Bernie had and Jayne won’t re-offer her the position?

“No,” Bernie says. “No, I haven’t. I was going to tell her tomorrow, thankfully.”

“Good.”

“I do have one problem though,” Bernie says.

“Oh?” Serena asks, feels her heart sink in preparation for what Bernie’s about to say.

“My lease is up, on my flat, at the end of this month. My landlord’s already let it to someone else.”

“I’m sure we can find you a new place,” Serena says, utterly relieved that it’s not something bad. “Somewhere close by so you can come over whenever you want,” her voice drips with suggestion and Bernie colours at the implications.

“Yeah, hi, we’re still here,” Elinor says loudly. “Please keep all that to yourselves.”

Serena chuckles, chooses to squeeze Bernie’s knee in lieu of kissing her again, thinks she shouldn’t torture her daughter too much.

“Oh!” Serena exclaims suddenly, “what are we going to tell our fans?”

“What do you mean?” Bernie asks.

“Oh you know, all those eager folks on the internet. Hashtag berena and all that, they deserve to know about us, don’t they?”

“Do they?”

“Well,” Serena turns a bit, puts her hand on Bernie’s hip, sneaks a couple fingers under the fabric of her t-shirt to stroke her bare skin. “Maybe I just want to shout my happiness from the rooftop, can you blame me?” she’s not quite making puppy eyes but she’s getting her point across just the same and Bernie caves almost immediately.

“Whatever you want,” she says.

Charlotte coughs something that easily could’ve been the word ‘whipped’ but when Serena turns around her face is a picture of innocence.

“If you want,” she offers, “I was taking picture earlier, just on my phone but I’ve got a few that might work as your big coming out post.”

She shows Serena the pictures, there’s a good dozen of her and Bernie, covered in flour, holding hands or making eyes at each other.

“What about that one?” Serena asks, pointing at one near the end of the bunch. It’s the two of them, Bernie with her hands on Serena’s hips and Serena with her arms around Bernie’s neck. They must have been just about to kiss; their noses are touching and they’re smiling against each other’s lips. They look so happy, as happy as Serena feels, almost, and it’s mind-boggling that a photo was able to capture that level of pure joy.

“Black and white filter and you’re in business,” Elinor agrees.

Bernie gives her permission as well, and Serena triple checks with her that it’s alright. She knows Bernie is much more private than she, she wants to make sure she’s okay with it. With Bernie’s blessing, Charlotte sends Serena the photo and Serena sets about crafting the instagram post.

‘I signed up for Bake Off to bake,’ she writes, ‘not fall in love. The universe had other ideas. Thank you @majorwolfe for making me the happiest woman on earth and reminding me that sometimes home has a heartbeat. #berena #gbbo’

She shows it to Bernie and, at her nod, presses ‘share’.

“I mean it,” she says softly to Bernie, later, once their daughters have gone upstairs and left them alone in the sitting room. “I am the happiest woman on earth right now.”

“No,” Bernie says, kissing her cheek, “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes home has a heartbeat" is a quote by Beau Taplin and it's been giving me feelings about this au for months.


End file.
